


Where the Stars are Strange

by raiyana



Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Corsairs - Freeform, F/M, Fourth Age, Gen, Gondor, Harad, M/M, Plotty, Post-Lord of the Rings, Tolkien Secret Santa 2017, War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-17
Updated: 2018-03-03
Packaged: 2019-02-16 04:58:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 36,455
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13046976
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/raiyana/pseuds/raiyana
Summary: In the vast Southern lands after the destruction of Sauron, anger simmers in the hearts of Men; tempers run as hot as the desert sun... all that is needed to start a wildfire is a whispeer of an idea, a single moment, a single thought.The Fire is lit.In Gondor, Aragorn inherited spies from Denethor’s reign, and the reports crossing his desk are unsettling; war is on the horizon.Meanwhile, someone who thought her task was finally ended realises that all she has worked for may yet turn to ashes - she cannot leave Middle-Earth to face this new threat alone, not without knowing what lies behind the rumours she hears, scattered seeds of a story left to flutter in the wind.What is truth, what is lie? What is lost and what is found once more?In the Far South, where the Stars are strange, Aragorn will have to contend with Corsairs of Umbar, uneasy political alliances, manipulative plotters and lust for revenge...Written for Tolkien Secret Santa '17.Recipient: Therealvagabird on Tumblr.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Much gratitude to Bunn for a wonderful betaing job!
> 
> @ recipient: if you have an ao3 account, send me a message with the name and I'll gift this fic over.

In the vast desert, amid dunes of sand looming darkly against the brilliance of the stars above, a woman with hair of fire awoke suddenly, her yellow eyes taking in the pinpricks of light with a thoughtful frown. For a moment it seemed as though no part of creation moved. The sandy dunes that stretched in any direction as far as mortal eyes could see held little danger for her; nor was it the crackle of the small fire as it devoured the dried and pressed manure that was the fuel of choice in these parts that had disturbed her dreams. Turning her head, she frowned at the smaller figure on the opposite side of the fire, but the black-haired dwarf was fast asleep, the fire throwing deep shadows across the crags of his face. Nothing seemed amiss, the sand-dwelling lizards making no noise as they skittered across the loose grains, but the long-limbed horses that needed no hobbles seemed startled, moving restlessly. A light desert breeze caught the edge of her hood as she stood, revealing glittering yellow eyes in a weathered and sun-bronzed face. Blinking, turning her face west with a thoughtful frown, one hand reached out to soothe the nearest animal as she tried to make sense of her sudden unease.

The night-wind tugged playfully at her robes, catching in her hair as she leaned back, breathing in the scent of the Sea of Dunes. A hint of her favourite night-blooming roses caressed her senses, though none of them grew closer than Umbar’s palace gardens, mixing with the warm dryness of the sand that stretched around them and something that smelled like secrets. The wind murmured around her, picking up a fold of blue cloth, speaking to her in ways none but a maia of Manwë’s would have heard, and in it there were whispers of a rising darkness, a name steeped in fear. _The Son of Sauron_ , it called, a title that should have perished with its last bearer, vanquished far to the north and trampled beneath the hooves of many horses.

“I suppose it is time to return, _mellon_ , if you feel it necessary,” she murmured, stroking the velvet nose as she smiled gently, as she often did, never admitting – even to herself – whether she was only pretending that she could speak to the one who had been gone for so long. “Perhaps you are right, and our task is not yet done.” She was alone now, but for a few select companions; often chosen from among the Blacklocks, whose staunch support had never wavered. Abbas, who was sleeping on the other side of the fire, little more than tufts of dark hair appearing above his blanket, was only the latest in a long line of companions. Rómestámo didn’t like calling them servants, preferring the term companion – even if it brought forth the sorrowful memories of the one she had lost – but it was the name their order had chosen. _The Servants of The Ancient One_ , they called themselves – brave warriors to a Dwarf – chosen to aid her in her task, fulfilling their King’s command. It didn’t matter that that King had been dead for more than an Age, not to Dwarrow, who were the most stubbornly honourable people in Middle-Earth in her opinion – certainly the most stubborn – but she was grateful for their efforts, keeping her from falling into despair after Morinehtar was killed and giving up on her task altogether.

The horse pushed gently against her shoulder, blowing a lock of hair across her face. The beautiful horse had been a gift from a warlord in Khand once-upon a time, though she no longer remembered how she had merited such a majestic animal.

“Did you say something, Mistress?” the squat dwarf who had been sleeping on the opposite side of the fire asked, blinking blearily at her – he was one of those who didn’t like using her name, preferring to call her Ancient One or simply Mistress, but Rómestámo paid her names no mind; she had so many to choose from, after all. Once, her name had been Pallando, but it had been more than an age since the last one who had known that had perished, and these days the sailors of the coastal lands she travelled called her Rómestámo, East-Helper, in the ancient tongue from across the Sea.

“Yes, Abbas,” she replied calmly, a smile splitting her face. “I have decided to journey north, now. Go back to sleep, my friend. We shall depart for Umbar before first light and take ship to Gobel Mírlond.” For herself, Rómestámo had no intention of sleeping, sitting cross-legged on her bedroll and letting the wind play with her hair as she listened to a voice only she could hear.

 

Abbas had only been accepted as the Ancient One’s servant a few years back, but he had noticed that her seemingly random decisions usually led her feet where her wisdom was most needed, and simply accepted their new course as a matter of fact. Other than her sometimes inexplicable whims, the job was quite simple; he handled the practical matters and ensured that no one was foolish enough to attack what they mistook for an old lady of some wealth. It was better that he stopped them, than needing _her_ to stop them, he had been told, the look on his predecessor’s face enough to stop him asking for clarification. You angered the Ancient One at your own peril.

“Very well, Mistress.” Abbas nodded, though he knew she did not see him for all that her eyes were open, glittering yellow like a mountain cat’s, the flickering flames catching in the sapphire stud in her nose. Lying back down on his bedroll, he was asleep in minutes; a good trait for one of the Servants, he had learned, who were often woken by the whims of the Mistress. He did not know how she did it, continuing onwards with little rest, but he had been warned by the Elders against asking impertinent questions, and wondering why the Ancient One rarely seemed to sleep like a mortal most likely fell into that category.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Aragorn found Arwen in the library, poring over the scrolls that Imrahil’s ancestors had collected for more than a thousand years; he found her interest amusing, considering she _remembered_ most of the events detailed in the tomes, but Arwen seemed to enjoy the pastime. Sighing, he sat down beside her, catching a long lock of black hair in his fingers and began to share the news one of the spies employed by Denethor years before had reported this evening.

“We’ve only just defeated Sauron, and now you’re telling me that some of the tribes in East Harondor and further away are arming themselves for war again?” Arwen – Queen Arwen, now – looked up from the scrolls she had been studying, frowning at him. “Do mortals-” she paused, as she always did whenever she remembered that she was counted among that number, her dark brows furrowing. “Do Men never learn?”

Aragorn chuckled, unrolling the map he was carrying and pushing aside the old – younger than his Queen, but still more than a thousand years of age – scrolls detailing the early reign of one of his long-ago ancestors that Arwen had found in the Library vaults. She claimed they were informative; but Aragorn silently admitted that, though he loved listening to her mellifluous voice when she told him what she had learned from the dusty parchment, he had little desire to look at them himself.

“They think we were weakened by the War,” he said, sighing, “and they’d be right.” Arwen made a soft sound, looking at the heavily annotated map of Gondor and Rohan. The Rohirric lands had been hit the hardest, Saruman’s roving bands of orcs pillaging and burning whole villages to the ground, leaving the farms untended and, in some places, poisoned by salting that would take years to recover.

“Strike them with a heavy hand,” she replied, tracing the spot that had once been a fishing village in Lebennin, “make them think we are stronger than we really are.” Aragorn sighed.

“That is what my advisors say,” he admitted, frowning, “and Éomer would come to my aid if I asked it, even though he needs every available man at home to rebuild…” He did not wish to burden his friend – Éomer was a good man, though his grief had hardened him some; his recent marriage to Princess Lothíriel, however, might yet soften the experienced warrior, bring him some well-earned peace – especially if she bore him an heir soon.

“And if you do nothing about this threat, how many of the rebuilt homes will burn before they are stopped, love?” Placing her hand on his arm, stroking the blue fabric that bore little resemblance to the practical garb he had worn when he travelled as a Dúnedain ranger, but looked right on the body of a King, Arwen looked at him with all the wisdom of her long life shining in her eyes.

“Are you so eager to see more war?” he wondered, feeling guilty as soon as he posed the question. He knew better; knew _her_ better.

“If I could have peace, I would, Aragorn… but I do not want our children to grow up with the threat of invasion hanging over their heads.” Arwen turned her gaze back to the maps, but she did not protest the light touch he feathered along the ridge of her ear, stroking his index finger across the point. “Faramir and I can rule Gondor in your absence, _King Elessar_ … but only Aragorn Telcontar can lead her armies to victory in this, I feel.” Tracing the flow of the Anduin from the north, all the way through Rohan and south past Osgiliath, she said nothing further, letting him consider his response in silence; a silence that reminded him of Rivendell and his many lessons with Elrond. It might be an Elven thing, creating the kind of silence that let him gather his thoughts with ease rarely found in the Council Chambers of Minas Tirith. Outside the window, a sea-gull screeched, but the sound of the waves was dulled by distance, even though the slight tang of salt in the air lingered.

“You are certainly capable of ruling,” he admitted, knowing the truth of it; Arwen was a much better diplomat and steward than he, even if he had been born to the role of a King. The Men of the Dúnedain Rangers had made him their leader at a young age, it was true, but there was a vast difference between keeping up morale in a group of fighting Men and safeguarding the North, and managing a whole kingdom, including taxes and noblemen who felt entitled to certain lifestyles and influences. He thanked the Valar daily for the presence of Imrahil, the well-respected Prince of Dol Amroth, whose advice had quickly become invaluable to both himself and his Queen.

“And yet you do not wish to leave me alone here,” she smiled, tilting her head to allow him better access to her ear, “I know, hervenn, but your duty to the Realm… I have always known it would take you far from my side at times.”

“The reports indicate that there are significant forces massing in the far-eastern parts of Harondor, with some support from Harad, led by someone calling himself the ‘Son of Sauron’,” Aragorn said, his nose wrinkling.

“The new Master of Gobel Mírlond seems content with our rule,” Arwen nodded thoughtfully as she spoke – she had been instrumental in arranging the recent alliance with Sea-Lord Zhubin and knew the corsair better than Aragorn. “You could press for some levies from Gobel Mírlond; it is in his best interest to quell unrest within the borders of South Gondor. If I were planning to invade western Harondor from the east, Mírlond is where I would strike; take over the seat of power and force the local chiefs to unite against Gondor.”

“I have sent a messenger to Éomer, nonetheless,” Aragorn replied, tracing the newly opened route beneath the Dimholt. “With a warning and a plea to muster some forces…”

“Éomer will come to your aid.” Arwen turned her head, reaching up too smooth out the deepened wrinkles between his brow and stood from her chair. “For now, however,” she smiled, and he recognised the expression of mischief on her face, “we should leave Imrahil’s library and retire to our room. You can worry about what the council will say in the morning.” With that, she kissed him in a way that left little doubt in Aragorn’s mind that his wife had not meant for them to retire to _sleep_.

 

* * *

 

 

Far east, and a fair bit south of Dol Amroth, the Son of Sauron was embroiled in his own council-meeting, sitting in a lavish silk tent. A brazier of incense perfumed the air, making his closest advisor uncomfortable, though Siavash cared little for the comfort of those around him. The smell of the incense kept up the illusion of his wealth, allowing him to pretend that he was still at home in Amrûn, rather than… wherever they were; he really couldn’t care less about the name of this backwater of Khand civilisation. Amir Zerang wore such voluminous robes, the heavy veiling part of the traditional garb for a eunuch; dark colours and fabrics combining to create a non-entity whose only job was to serve their Master. Eunuchs had first come into being in the desert lands with the Black Númenorians, who believed that such servants were superior to all others, and the cult of Sauron still practised the traditional cutting, though the role of the eunuch had changed from personal servant to keepers of their Master’s secrets and advisors. Amir Zerang had come into his service through his father, blessed be his memory, Jahangir the Black Serpent who had been named Son of Sauron some thirty years earlier and led their forces against the North Kingdom.

 

Standing beside Siavash, hidden beneath yards of black and dark green silk, her features concealed by more veils than most harem-girls possessed, Anahit sighed silently. She had become well-versed in keeping her silence whenever Siavash deemed it necessary that he was seen as the brains behind the effort to avenge their dead family. Of course, _he_ thought she was the esteemed advisor Amir Zerang; named to the council by Jahangir, the Black Serpent Chieftain and the last Son of Sauron, before he had gone to war in the north for the glory of his Dark Lord.

“Father left me in charge!” Siavash grumbled, crossing his arms over his chest in a way that he probably considered imposing. On his father, it had been; Jahangir had exuded that rare combination of menace and charisma that made men follow him willingly unto whatever end he decreed. On Siavash, the gesture was really only childish and petulant, Anahit thought silently, knowing the veils that covered her face would stop him from realising the mockery of her smile.

“Of course, he did, Amir Siavash,” she replied, her voice soft as a whisper, yet everyone in the tent fell silent to hear her words. “And we all follow your lead.” They all followed _her_ lead, anyway, but Siavash was a convenient figurehead. Jahangir might not have seen her as more than the daughter of his favourite slave, but Anahit possessed the innate ability to make men listen – when they thought _she_ was a _he_ , of course, cut or otherwise; a eunuch had far more potential power in the East than a woman. “We feel your desire for vengeance burn in our blood. The North-King will pay for those who were slaughtered and you will lead our tribes to a glorious future in our new land.” It was better for her plans if none of these warriors guessed that they were being commanded by a woman, which was why she put up with the guise of being Amir Zerang and the task of placating Siavash’s temper tantrums.

“Amir Zerang speaks truly, Amir Siavash.” Chieftain Bahman certainly did not live up to his name, Anahit thought waspishly, but then again, she was hardly pure, so she couldn’t complain that the short man was less astute than his name suggested.

“More warriors join our forces every day,” Anahit whispered – keeping her voice low and husky combined with the muffling quality of her esgal raiment allowed her to remain indistinct to the ears of her audience, to continue fooling them as to her gender – wondering what Jahangir might say if he were alive to watch her play his son like a fiddle. Of course, she thought, looking at her half-brother, Jahangir had instructed her to keep an eye on Siavash when he went off to fight at the Pelennor, but he should have known that she would never be satisfied with being Siavash’s advisor. No, the only daughter of the man who had been named ‘World-conqueror’ would follow in her father’s footsteps – even if she had to use her younger brother to do so. “Soon our numbers will be enough to ensure victory over the North-King and the cowards who bent their knee to his rule.”

Or, rather, soon she would be able to ensure that Siavash got himself killed in combat.  With Siavash dead, she would be free and in the north, able to flee to the Lord of Osgiliath and claim sanctuary – she had squirrelled away more than enough gold to set herself up as a merchant or noble lady – trusting in the pale hair she had inherited from her Rohirric mother to corroborate her story of being an escaped prisoner. She wanted freedom, true freedom – and she was shrewd enough to get it.

Siavash flicked his hand in the direction of the mute slave girl in the corner of the tent, who poured wine into his goblet and tried not to flinch at the way he tugged on the golden ring piercing her nipple. Once, the slave had been a daughter of a man like the ones at this council, until her father had failed Jahangir’s orders in a matter of conquering territory, but now she was little more than a play-thing. Anahit accepted her own goblet silently, watching impassively behind her veil as the slave made the round of the table.

His golden arm-rings – Siavash believed that wearing more gold than anyone in a room automatically made him the most respected – rang out softly when they knocked together as he lifted his goblet in a toast as she had taught him he should. The flickering light of the burning brazier caught in the ruby eyes of his Serpent-ring, making the coiled snake come alive, the tiny scales etched into the gold shimmering in the low light. Anahit bared her teeth behind her veil; the rings had been made for Jahangir’s children – _she_ should have been given one, but her sex meant she had been passed over for the honour, no matter how much he called her ‘daughter’. Instead, Jahangir had given her anklets – a symbol of enslavement, in Anahit’s mind, even though she had never worn the shackles she had seen wrapped around her mother’s ankles – and arm-rings, dressed her in fine silks and enough gold to attract powerful suitors, even for the daughter of a slave from the north. She had been sold to one of the sons of the Chief of the Broken Tusk tribe, married off for the sake of a few more regiments of soldiers.

Anahit had killed her husband on the journey back to his tribe, and slit the throats of his men, disguising herself as a eunuch and returned to Siavash’s camp bearing false papers forged in her father’s hand that named her the chief advisor while Jahangir was off to war, following the orders of the Dark Lord.

“To the King in the White City,” Siavash said, sharing a mocking smile with Chieftain Bahman and his oldest son, “enjoy the time you have left before the Serpent’s Tooth finds you.” Anahit didn’t drink, but no one expected her to – revealing a eunuch’s face in public was a source of great shame – instead nodding respectfully at Siavash.

 

* * *

 

 

“The King of Gondor has returned!” A man cried, as soon as the Gate Guard spotted the White Tree flying above their small riding party; the banner shining in the moonlight. “King Elessar has returned!” the guard continued, easily heard across the distance. At the words, the silver trumpets were blown; a sharp and clear sound. For a moment, Aragorn heard a much different voice speaking, heard the voice of the man who had died so far from the city he loved.

Silently, Aragorn touched the finely tooled leather armguards he had taken as a sign of his respect for his comrade, renewing the promise he had made to Gondor’s dying son. _I will not let our people fall. Not to Sauron, and not to this new threat, either._

Night had fallen by the time they reached the City Gate, even though Aragorn and Arwen had chosen to ride through the capital that shone brightly in the moonlight instead of bumbling along in a carriage. The sound of the hooves against stone was loud in the silence of a sleeping city, with few but the guards at each gate and a few ladies of the night about their business at such a late hour. The guards were respectful, bowing or nodding at the passing of the King and Queen, though the few patrons of the various inns were more raucous. Arwen smiled graciously at the people they passed, used to their staring. Before the War of the Ring, her kind had been reduced to mere legend in the minds of Men, and Aragorn himself taking up the mantle of King nearly paled in comparison to the idea of an _Elven_ Queen.

 

When they finally reached the Citadel, all Aragorn truly wanted was his bed, but – despite the lateness of the hour – they were waylaid by the seneschal, Feron, whose fidgeting hands and mousy face hid a surprisingly organised mind that Aragorn relied on for the day-to-day running of his household. He had sent word ahead from Dol Amroth, but there always seemed to be things the King could only decide in person; holding a full council was apparently among them.

“Summon the Council for tomorrow evening, after sixth bell.” Aragorn decided; it would give him time to read the missives that were bound to be waiting in his study and take care of any pressing business as well. “The meeting is bound to run late, have extra refreshments prepared.” Arwen remained silent beside him, one hand lightly resting on his forearm; as always far more graceful than he could manage.

“Yes, my King,” Feron nodded, making a note on his writing board. “Will Prince Faramir of Ithilien be joining the Council?”

“No, Prince Faramir should be arriving a few days hence; have his usual rooms prepared.” It never ceased to amuse Aragorn how vehemently the young seneschal insisted on using proper titles, but it was the height of Gondorian impoliteness to forget. The man nodded politely, and finally they were able to retire, waving away handmaidens and manservants alike in favour of undressing each other for bed.

 

* * *

 

 

Arriving in Minas Tirith, the messenger hastened towards the Keep, brandishing his royal seal of passage at each gate as he rode through the cobbled streets. The haste of King Éomer’s messengers was not an unusual sight to the people of Minas Tirith, who moved out of the way with ease, though the late hour of his arrival raised a few eyebrows. A couple patrons of the Drunken Donkey remarked favourably on the quality of the mount which led to a spirited re-telling of the Battle of the Pelennor and the Charge of the Rohirrim by more than one bar patron who may or may not have actually seen it. Nonetheless, it was a good story, the kind that made you shiver in remembered terror but also brought the sweet relief of knowing that peace now reigned supreme in your world, that the Enemy had been defeated more than a year earlier, never to return.

 

* * *

 

The knock startled them both out of sleep, followed by the quietly apologetic voice of one of the night guards coming through the door.

“There’s a messenger from Rohan, my King; he claims it is urgent news.”

Aragorn groaned, scrubbing his weary eyes with his hands before he slid out of the bed to pull on a robe, shivering slightly at the feel of the cold stone floor against his bare feet until he found a pair of court slippers that he’d vehemently deny owning if Elladan or Elrohir ever asked.

 

* * *

 

“Éomer has agreed that it is imperative to defeat this ‘Son of Sauron’ before he becomes a real problem,” Aragorn said, walking back through the door of their bedroom – he had been highly amused by Feron originally designating a bedroom for each of them, but Arwen had managed to make a combined bedroom seem like the man’s own idea in ways that Aragorn still did not understand. Looking at his Queen, he was once more struck by her ethereal beauty, momentarily transported decades into the past as he saw her dancing in a forest glade on the first day they met. Arwen smiled, putting aside the scroll she was reading. Aragorn yawned lightly, sliding the hastily donned robe off his shoulders as he walked to the bed.

“When will you leave?” she asked, lifting the light blanket that covered their bed and resting her dark head on his shoulder when he slid in beside her.

“The Rohirrim will be in Osgiliath in three weeks,” Aragorn murmured sleepily, running his fingers slowly through her unbound hair. “Our own forces have already received orders to muster at the garrison in Southern Ithilien – some of Faramir’s rangers have been sent south of Poros to scout the terrain.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

For a long time, as he was being trained in the Orocarni, he had thought that the stories he was being told of her cunning and bravery had to be embellished, but as he had journeyed with her, he had come to realise that the touch of the Ancient One seemed to linger in the hearts of those who knew her. Whether her service consisted of small favours or grand deeds, they all served her purpose: reminding the People of the East that there was light in the world, a life to be had that did not depend on the whims of a Dark Lord.

She was quiet, soft-spoken unless angered, her face wrinkled with the passing of time and Sun, but her back was unbowed by age, and the staff she carried saw no use to aid her steps. She might look like she was of an age to be cooing at grandchildren if one ignored the colour of her hair, but the Ancient One exerted a peculiar form of power over her surroundings. Something indefinable seemed to surround her, as though her form was too small to contain the fire that burned inside her; as though getting too close would burn.

Umbar was loud as always, the busy docksides bustling with people who stepped aside for the Ancient One almost without thought. Abbas, his black tresses artfully wrapped with gold and rubies that glinted with the fire of the sun, following along behind her, a wide curved blade strapped to his belt and several knives within easy reach was another deterrent. His dark expression promised trouble for whomever disturbed his Mistress, and the cut-purses and thieves of Umbar’s streets and canals slunk away warily, looking for easier targets.

They were headed for the _Lady of Tears_ , one of the ships that belonged to Sea-Lord Zhubin, whose fame as a corsair – infamy, in Gondor – did not mean that he had forgotten the time Azarpari had saved his brother from being sent to Mordor as a sacrifice. It was the way the Ancient One worked, Abbas had learned, building long-lasting alliances by demanding very little for the deeds she did, the favours she granted.

 

* * *

 

 

Concealed beneath her blue hood – the sun was sharp at midday – Rómestámo hurried onwards, Abbas following behind like a silent shadow as she breathed in the salty air of the sea. Ahead, the _Lady of Tears_ lay at anchor, just as Zhubin’s messenger had promised, bound for Gobel Mírlond’s markets with a cargo of silk and mumakil tusks. It had been no trouble to secure passage for herself and her companion; it was well-known among the sailors who traded up and down the coast that having Rómestámo on board – no matter the name they called her – resulted in favourable winds.

 

Abbas did not enjoy sailing. By no means was that a new trait in one of Rómestámo’s many companions; his people were made from stone and felt far better when their connection to the land was not hampered by however many dwarf-lengths of water that currently stood between him and the shore – or the bottom. The sailors had laughed in Umbar, predicting that he would be among those who made sacrifices to Ulmo, but Abbas had gritted his teeth, refusing to shame his kin by being conquered by the sea. Rómestámo had laughed, shaking her head at his stubbornness, but she had made no fuss about it, letting him handle the light rocking in whatever way he saw fit.  

The Captain of the ship had nearly fallen over himself in his haste to offer Rómestámo the use of his personal cabin, but she had refused. Instead, she had taken up a space in the prow of the ship, where she was not in the way of the sailors, but able to see the glitter of the stars above, and feel Manwë’s wind against her skin. It made her long for home, though the ache was as familiar to her as a cradle-song to one who has long-since left their mother behind; softened with time and distance but no less heart-breaking to remember. For scores of years, her duty had kept her here, in this land of sand and heat, fulfilling the task set before her, but now… now it was ended. At least, that was what she had thought, taking Abbas along on what was – to her – merely a trip through the pages of her memory, a last glimpse of the parts of Arda she had loved best before she followed the call to go home, to return to Taniquetil and shed the shell she had worn for so long her own form seemed almost unreal to her mind.

And then the wind had changed, and her path stretched before her once more, as clear and brilliant as the light of Varda’s stars.

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Map created by taaivansusi for Lindefirion.net

In general, Khand and Harad consisted of vast areas of desert, only nominally owned or controlled by anyone, dotted here and there with small oases, though the arid lands boasted few rivers, and its people tended to be nomadic tribes. Jahangir had found many of his forces here, for Sauron’s power held sway in the region, his priests and cultists spreading the insidious words of their Dark Lord. The thought made Anahit’s lip curl with disdain, but she felt no compunction against using their sympathies for her own ends; Jahangir’s Dark Lord was dead, along with those who had followed him north.

Their journey through Khand’s deserts, baked orange and brown by the merciless sun, had yielded more men, and even some weapons; Dwarf-forged steel was worth more than gold in some areas of the South, and the tribes of Khand had some trade routes with the Clans of the Orocarni far to the East. They had followed the Auchel south and west along the dark spikes of Ephel Dúath after crossing the desert of Upper Khand, drumming up support in the form of both men and grain for the cause, but the long journey would soon be at an end.

Built by the banks of the River Auchel, this place was quite similar to the smaller hamlets she had seen in Chelkar. The Haruze tribes who lived here built their homes from thick reeds and smoothening the walls with river clay left to dry in the sun. Korb Chelkar, situated along the slow Ode Auchel, was a motley collection of mudwalled huts that barely deserved the designation of ‘town’, in Anahit’s opinion, but it was one of the last stops on the way she had trod since she decided to use her father’s legacy to forge a new path for herself, free of the lingering feeling of shackles she had never worn herself, but always feared.

The Chieftain they had come here to see, Masoud, was sympathetic to the cause, though he was reluctant to send any more men north; Anahit couldn’t blame him, but she wanted food more than she wanted men. In Chelkar, the Haruze grew grain and raised cattle, the water running off the Ephel Dúath range collecting in tributaries that flowed into the Auchel and made the region one of the richest in terms of fertile land and water to be found south of Mordor.

The view was picturesque, the dark shadowy mountains stretching across the northern horizon, the light green fields of sprouting rice and wheat covering the banks of the wide river. If she turned south, the horizon that hid Amrûn from view was blocked by the sandstone rises of the Kajbah range, glowing in golden hues and softened by the hazy light of the sun. Before that, the wide band of the greenish river flowed gently, lapping at the banks as it continued past her, showing her the way home. The river turned south when it merged into one of the run-off rivers of the Nûrn sea coming from the north and ran through the steep gorges to Amrûn where it met the great Harnen and flowed out to sea.

Taking a deep breath in preparation for returning to the hut Siavash had claimed while she had met with the local leaders in the centre of the village, Anahit felt closer to her goal than ever. Korb Chelkar might be a far cry from Jahangir’s palace in Amrûn where she had grown up, but it was one of the last places she had planned to stop for supplies before returning. In the morning, they would move on, following the road along Auchel to Amrûn where most of Siavash’s forces were encamped, awaiting the command to march west toward Ancalimon. For a brief moment, Anahit allowed herself to imagine walking through the water-gardens of Amrûn, built to rival the Gardens of Mûrabêth in Gobel Mírlond. In her mind, she was enjoying a cool drink and wearing her favourite blue dress with its golden embroidery as her personal slave walked behind her with the large fan to waft cooler air around her.

Her fantasy was abruptly shattered by Siavash’s loud calling – _had his voice always been so grating? Anahit didn’t remember him being this tiresome as a small boy_ – and she sighed silently, feeling a drop of sweat travel down her spine beneath the heavy veiled robes that made her look like a eunuch. 

Siavash had immediately demanded the chieftain’s hut, where he spent his day granting ‘audiences’ and fucking whatever girl had taken his fancy lately. Anahit didn’t care to notice the girls – they served her purposes well, keeping Siavash far from any real decisions – keeping herself busy with making the men around her believe that they were wielding real power while they were truly dancing to the tune she was playing. Chieftain Masoud was only the latest in a long line of tribal leaders she had swayed to lend aid for the effort ahead by stirring the fires of vengeance in their blood.

Returning to the hut he had commandeered, Anahit found their ‘intrepid leader’ decked out in a splendid dark silk tunic with an embroidered motif of prancing stallions done in gold, a sash of orange silk tied around his waist as he sprawled on the large silk cushions he insisted travelled with them, and one arm around their host’s pretty young daughter.

“Amir Siavash,” she said, bowing respectfully – not that he was worthy of her respect, she thought, her lips twitching into a snarl concealed by her veil. “How may I serve you?”

“Have you finished negotiating with Chieftain Masoud?” he asked, glancing at the girl at his side and Anahit suddenly realised he intended to ask for the girl as part of the tribute demanded of Masoud. The girl looked scared. Anahit’s eyes narrowed, but she had little choice but to ignore the girl; it wouldn’t do to openly oppose Siavash’s actions and cause suspicions, though she might be able to find a way to spare the girl whatever Siavash had in store for her. Behind them, the girl’s mother – the chieftain’s First-Wife, by her jewellery – seemed to pale; she had probably heard stories of Siavash’s temper. When this venture of vengeance began, he had been easily placated with little more than a platter of dates or sweets, but these days his tastes had turned to darker joys only suitable for experienced whores – not for a girl who looked almost too young to be considered a possible bed-mate.

“I have, Amir Siavash,” Anahit replied, feeling curiously akin to the girl beside him; in many ways, Siavash was similar to their father as well as the man he had sold Anahit to. In one way, she had been luckier than the pretty doe-eyed girl; Anahit doubted Siavash intended to take the girl to wife, after all, which would at least have accorded her _some_ standing. “We shall be leaving in the morning.” Negotiations had not really been completed, Masoud was yet to agree to her terms, but it was a matter of time only. He simply wanted to seem more powerful to his underlings by stalling on Siavash’s requests. “Chieftain Masoud has generously offered you three sacks of grain more than we asked, and the men are ready to march when you give the order.” Anahit bowed again. Behind Siavash, whose eyes were beginning to narrow in displeasure, the girl’s mother nodded, aware of Anahit’s implied offer. Three sacks of grain were a small price to demand for saving the girl. Anahit smiled to herself; Masoud’s stalling had just been efficiently ended, and she hadn’t even had to give him any concessions to get her way. “Chieftain Masoud would like his family to join him in saying farewell to their tribesmen,” Anahit nodded in the direction of the woman and the girl, “and Lady Mahsa wanted a word with you before you retired.” Mahsa was his favourite, for now, and the older woman would be more than enough to make Siavash forget anything to do with the chieftain’s young daughter. Men were so easy once you knew what they liked.

“Mahsa… very well,” Siavash said, licking his lips. Anahit felt no guilt diverting his attention. Mahsa seemed to enjoy it, in any case, though Anahit shuddered to imagine why. Removing one of the golden bangles that ringed his wrist, Siavash tossed it towards her. “For Chieftain Masoud,” he smirked. “A sign of my esteem.” Anahit simply nodded, bending to pick up the bangle and preceded the First-Wife and her daughter out of the hut, sending a young boy to fetch Lady Mahsa.

 

* * *

 

Gobel Mírlond was at once like Umbar and very different. For one, it was smaller, and less dusty. For another, it had seen more warfare, even though the Haruze lord who had had control of the city when King Elessar’s forces marched south had surrendered with little protest, aware that General Jahangir’s armies had failed in the north.

The harbour was split in two, commercial and military, and the Lady of Tears docked on the traders’ side. Abbas was pleased to be off the ship; the sailors had stopped being amused by his presence, and the Captain was quite friendly, but Abbas felt leagues better as soon as his boots hit the cobbles, immediately covered by a fine layer of red dust. The dust reminded him of home, though it wasn’t quite right in colour and made of sandstone and red clay from the Harnen river. Looking up, the first thing that caught his eyes were columns, painted with snaking ribbons of greens, blues, and reds along their trunks and disappearing into pointy arches at the top, shaped in a latticework of stone that fit together seamlessly. The architecture had elements of Dwarven construction, but the main elements of the web-like lattices were sinuously curved, not a right angle to be found anywhere.

Moving through the colonnade, they found the large square covered in brightly coloured cloth sails to keep out the sun, vendors selling every imaginable goods; from dates to silk and even a trader he vaguely recognised from home, selling lamps and other decorative objects. Abbas exchanged nods, but the Mistress kept moving so he did not have time to inspect the wares with proper courtesy. In the throng of people, he had to stay close to her, keeping alert; Gobel Mírlond wasn’t as hostile as towns further east and south, but Abbas wouldn’t let his guard down considering how worried she had been since that night in the desert.

 

* * *

 

Making their way through the noisy bazaar, Rómestámo and Abbas managed to avoid most of the hawkers, continuing north from the docks and slipping through narrow alleyways and streets until they reached an airier part of the city, blocked by the wall that surrounded the Gardens of Mûrabeth. Turning east along the wall, the pair headed for one of the large mansions overlooking the Gardens; the beautiful house belonging to Sea-Lord Zhubin, the governor of Harondor under the rule of King Elessar.

The guard outside had obviously been briefed about their imminent arrival, opening the door with a calm nod. Rómestámo walked through, handing her outer cloak to the footman on the other side.

“This way, Mistress Azarpari,” a young boy said, moving down a long high-ceilinged corridor with deep windows that overlooked the Gardens of Mûrabeth. Opening the ornately carved door at the end, the boy waved them through.

“Mistress Azarpari, welcome to Gobel Mírlond,” the pretty darkhaired woman said, rising from the low divan where she had been lounging, listening to the harpist entertaining the gathered women in the room. Her long scarlet silk dress whispered across the mosaic floor, an ancient mural depicting

“Lady Glingaeril, I am pleased to find you well,” Rómestámo said, reaching out to take the hands of the Lady of the House. “Let me introduce my companion, Abbas of the Clan Blacklock from the Orocarni.”

“As I am sure you expected, Mistress,” Glingaeril replied, squeezing back warmly. “Welcome to our house, Master Abbas.” Nodding towards one of the page boys by the door, Glingaeril offered both of them seats on the soft cushions beside her. “I regret that Amir Zhubin is not present; he rode for Has Yayb the day before yesterday to speak with Chieftain Aghil.” Leaning back against her pillows, Lady Glingaeril sighed. “I fear I am a poor replacement, my lady, but let me at least offer you refreshment.”

“I did not come here to be fêted,” Rómestámo chuckled, “though I will accept your hospitality gladly.” The same young servant boy arrived quickly, bearing a tray of fresh juice.

“Zhubin should return tonight or tomorrow,” Glingaeril said, smiling softly, “he had hoped to be back before you arrived, but perhaps he was delayed. Your first message seemed urgent.”

“I carry great worry that has come to me on desert wings… a worry Zhubin will wish to investigate further.” Rómestámo looked at the young woman, whose eyes suddenly turned guarded and nodded; Glingaeril may not have been born in Harnendor, but she would have heard the legends of the Ancient One and her purpose. There were few reasons for any wizard to appear with as much urgency as Rómestámo had employed to get to Gobel Mírlond – and none of them were pleasant.

“It is true, then?” Glingaeril whispered, one hand moving to her middle in an instinctive gesture of protection. “ _He_ was not defeated with the Ring?” Around the room, low conversations suddenly ceased, every eye turning towards their Lady and her guest. Glingaeril exchanged a glance with one of the other women, heavy with child, who got to her feet slowly, moving to stand behind her.

“That is yet to be determined, child,” Rómestámo replied soothingly. The pregnant woman took Glingaeril’s hand, squeezing gently.

“Amir Zhubin will return with news,” she said. Rómestámo nodded.

“All that I know, for now, is that someone is using a name best forgotten to gather support and an army – for what purpose I do not know, though I have guesses.”

“I would rather your guesses than most tomes of scholarship,” Glingaeril replied, “for if it is to be war, preparing early is better than late.”

Rómestámo nodded. Though she had hoped to avoid scaring Zhubin’s young bride, it was indeed better to be prepared for what lay ahead.

“Then arrange for provisions; if this Son of Sauron has any mind at all, he will strike west ere he moves for Gondor.” Whoever he was, _whatever_ he was, the Son of Sauron would not find his road an easy one. Rómestámo had been prepared to go home, to return to her master in peace, but . “Send messengers to Minas Tirith, as well; this will be the North-King’s business before it is done.”

“We have already sent riders north; Zhubin felt it best as soon as he received your message.”

 

* * *

 

Walking through the gathered soldiers and horses, Aragorn smiled. He had found that he liked being King, in general, but there was something about the feel of an army marching to battle that an ordinary day in Minas Tirith lacked. Not that he wished for wars to plague his reign, but ruling Gondor was a task that still seemed insurmountable to him some days, no matter how much he had learned over the years of his life. Leading men into battle was altogether simpler than working out how his people ought to be taxed and which of his nobles had rightful concerns rather than blown-up petty squabbles they wanted his opinion on. He was also aware that his decisions – even though it had been three years since he accepted the crown of Gondor – were still being scrutinized. Prince Imrahil’s support had swayed many, though his own courage in battle and his work in the healer’s halls after the Pelennor had earned him the love of the people, but the minds of nobles were less easily won, and Aragorn was well aware that most of his powerful subjects would continue to test him.

Imrahil had laughed at his concern when he asked the Prince of Dol Amroth to remain with Arwen and guide her in any issues that arose, telling him that the Queen’s mind was as keen as any he had known. The Prince of Dol Amroth had stayed in Minas Tirith, nonetheless, leaving Amrothos and Erchirion to join the army in his place, claiming that it would be good for his youngers sons to experience a different kind of warfare than the one they had seen in the Ring-War. His friend’s presence did not stop Aragorn from worrying about Arwen, though; he would have no other for his Queen, but the fact that they had yet to create an heir was apparently becoming a cause for concern among some of the noble houses.

 _‘Stability, Aragorn,_ ’ Imrahil had told him, ‘ _that is what they seek when they ask for news of an heir. The throne has been empty too long; the people of Gondor would like clear succession… especially if their beloved King is going to risk his life in war.’_

Aragorn sighed at the futility of his own thoughts. Arwen had told him not to worry, and he didn’t – not about that, he was more than certain they would have children – but he hated the thought of any unkindness being turned her way because of him.

“You’re much too broody for such a lovely day, my friend!” Éomer’s loud booming voice hailed him, snapping Aragorn out of his morose preoccupation. He blinked, suddenly surrounded by what felt like a sea of green.  Raising his head with a peculiar feeling of déjà vu, Aragorn stared at the grey destrier, following the lines of Firefoot’s body upwards, lifting a hand to shield his eyes from the sun.

“Éomer Cyning,” he replied, nodding respectfully and managing to keep the solemn expression appropriate to greeting a fellow ruler for all of three seconds before a wide grin spread across his face. “It is good to see you, my friend.”

Éomer laughed, and when he dismounted, Aragorn clasped him in a fond embrace, the thuds of Éomer’s fist against his back reverberating through his chest as the Horselord returned his greeting. “I had not expected you till tomorrow!” Aragorn exclaimed, staring at the many riders busy with the minutiae of setting up camp and caring for their horses.

“Nay, but the weather was fair and the road easy.” Éomer shrugged lightly, “We made good time.”

Handing his horse off to his young squire, Éomer fell into step beside Aragorn with familiar ease as they walked through the scarred city that had yet to be fully repaired after the War. “Lothíriel Queen sends her greetings,” he added belatedly. Aragorn hid a smile; it was one of the markers of new husbands, he had realised: forgetting to convey spousal greetings.

“Arwen bid me tell you that she expects her husband returned without any bits missing,” he replied wryly, unsurprised to hear Éomer’s loud laugh ring out among the old stones of Osgiliath. Together, the two Kings ducked into the central building where Faramir had set up his command-post, receiving intelligence and handing out orders with the air of an experienced commander.

“Far be it from me to deny your lovely Queen such a request,” Éomer chuckled, clapping Aragorn on the shoulder as he added a conspiratorial, “I suppose my people would thank you to return the favour.” Éomer winked, making Aragorn smile and shake his head as he watched the younger man lope across the stone floor to embrace his law-brother. It was good to see that the grim King of Rohan had remembered how to smile in the years since the war – Rohan had been hit harder than anywhere else, and Éomer had inherited a kingdom on the verge of starvation.

 

 

A/N: small project because insomnia:

Sadly, the azalea game doesn’t create very good pirates, so here, Mae has clearly absconded with some Elven inspired duds from Dol Amroth, or something(it’s possible he bought them, of course, but you never know...). His ever-present daggers remain hidden on his person: within easy reach, though hard to spot for a stranger. The oldest son of Zhubin Wavestrider is temperamental like the seas which he sails, his emerald eyes hiding a keen mind - though not always diplomatic. 

Abbas, of course, follows his people’s long-held tradition of wearing enough gold to prove that he knows how to handle the weapons he carries(he, too, is guilty of many concealed daggers; his favourite has a mumakil tusk handle), and if you dare to ask about the gold coins set into the heads of his axes, he will - if he likes you enough - tell you that the weapons were made by his grandmother, and the coins placed there by his sister for luck on his travels. His task is to be protector and companion for the Ancient One; fulfilling an Oath made by the Dwarf who was King of his people more than two thousand years ago.

Azarpari hides her fiery hair beneath the blue cloak and robes for which she is known. Her golden eyes see things that are hidden, piercing the heart of their target in search of truth. Some say that the blue crystals that adorn her staff entrapped the life-force of the dragon that killed her mate, but the last Wizard in Endorë would never let you close enough to see if the serpent’s soul swirls within the hazy light. As a Maia of Manwë, she is particularly receptive to changes in the wind, and often finds friendship with the birds of the skies who bring her news from far-off places.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The plot thickens

Growing up, Anahit had barely noticed the eunuchs who walked silently around the palace, much like no one liked to notice _her_ now; except the eunuchs who had lived here when she was a child were servants sworn to the Dark Lord Sauron’s priests, and she was not that, and thus she was a dangerous unknown to most of the people here. Returning to their father’s house was less pleasant than Anahit had dreamed while on the road. She felt less free now than when she had been a slave; she might have been Jahangir’s daughter, but not by any of his four wives, which meant she was as much a slave as her mother. Of course, she told herself, she was no longer the ‘favoured daughter’ of a man equally feared for his brutality and temper as he was respected for his courage and cunning. No, the beautiful Lady Anahit she had once been was gone, and with her the pleasant life of leisure she had once enjoyed in this house.

Now, however, she was the respected and feared Amir Zerang; the soft-spoken eunuch, hidden beneath yards and yards of fabric, the esgal covering her from the top of her head to her feet, the loose fabric falling from the tall hat that sat on top of her head and mostly resembling a one-person walking tent, in her own opinion. Now, she was feared in her own right, even though she had shed little blood to make herself so. People avoided her, shied away from her gaze although they couldn’t see it, and moved out of her way in the corridors. Those who had the brains to realise her true power were deferential to the point where Anahit wanted to steal a page from her father’s book and begin cutting off ears or fingers when someone annoyed her.

As she strode restlessly through the corridors at night, she wondered at the irony of her life, but she had come too far abandon her plans now; using the esgal to conceal her burdens, she could smuggle almost more gold than she could carry without notice. She would have a horse when the army set off, and once the fighting was over she would simply disappear, free to find a new life of her own choosing. No one would care to look for her among the slain; she would merely be one more among a vast number of casualties.

Siavash’s army was not so numerous as Jahangir’s forces had been before the invasion of Gondor, but Anahit presumed that they would be enough to provide cover for her escape, fulfilling her revenge on Jahangir for his slights by taking with her as many of his possessions as she could get her hands on. The thought made her smile.

 

* * *

 

 

“Amir Zhubin!” Sea-Lord Zhubin looked up from the papers detailing a trade deal he was considering, to study the flustered young man who had dared barge into his study. Behind the servant, he could see one of those dark-haired northerners – recognisable by the flush of heat in his pale cheeks due to exposure to the sun – dressed for riding in the style of the Men of Gondor and wearing the sigil of the White Tree of his new King.

“Very well, Sohrab,” he nodded, waving away the flustered young man, who fled with alacrity. “And what service might I render King Elessar?” Zhubin asked, leaning back in his chair and folding his hands across his middle, the scarlet silk of his sash hiding more than one blade in easy reach.

“Captain Zhubin,” the messenger began, which made him frown.

“Captains command ships, boy,” he rumbled, holding up a hand and reaching for a small silver bell with the other, “ _I_ command a fleet. _I_ am Sea-Lord Zhubin the Many-Coloured, son of Shahin the Swift, and Master of Gobel Mírlond.”

Ringing the bell, Zhubin fell silent, staring at the young man who seemed struck with sudden fear. A coastal boy, then, most likely, one who had grown up with the tales of the barbaric corsairs of Umbar, been taught to fear the names of those who raided the coasts of Gondor. Zhubin smiled. It was a carefully menacing smile, meant to discomfit an opponent – he might not know what King Elessar wanted, but the King in the Tower of Guard was an uneasy ally, yet – and it worked as intended, he thought, watching the boy stand frozen before him.

Zhubin had been captaining his own ship before this one was more than a dewy glint in his father’s eye, he wagered; after all, he’d been named Sea-Lord at the age of 27 when his personal fleet numbered thirty ships. A Sea-Lord could afford not to be a Corsair; his reputation protecting his trade ships from all but the most vehement foes, and he was automatically included in the Council that mediated the life and haven of Umbar. In their own way, the Corsairs were much like the noblemen of Gondor, except they picked their Princes and recognised no one King as their overlord – no matter that there were Sea-Lords one would fare better by not crossing; the elders were usually the most cunning.

 

The door opened on silent hinges, admitting a tall lady dressed in the same scarlet silk as his sash; a long flowing dress and a long silk shawl that attached to her belt in the front, wrapping around her hip in a wide sweep of fabric and fastened on her shoulder with a golden brooch that bore his sigil. The end of the shawl trailed from her elbow to the floor, long enough to cover her face coquettishly if desired, as was the fashion among high-born ladies of Harnendor. Her hair had been artfully decorated with gold, her ears sporting several dangling gold pieces as well, decorated with Dwarf-cut rubies of the highest quality.

“Amir Zhubin,” she said, bowing her head lightly before coming to a stop beside him. Zhubin lifted her hand, making her bracelets ring against each other, and pressed a kiss gently against her wrist. One dark eyebrow inched higher, but her grey eyes remained calm above her soft smile.

“My Ocean Blossom,” he greeted her, his voice far gentler than the one he had used with the messenger. “Our new King sends word.” Gesturing at the still-silent messenger, Zhubin watched his wife frown in thought.

“A Dor-en-Ernil lad,” she said, studying the messenger, “and you have scared him into forgetting King Elessar’s message, it would seem.” The kohl that lined her eyes made her look like she had been born and raised as a noble lady in Harondor or Umbar, but in truth she was the daughter of a wealthy merchant from Dol Amroth. Zhubin had married her as much for her mind as for the respectability such an alliance brought with the recently restored Gondorian monarchy.

So far, he had not been disappointed by the bargain; seeing the looks on Gondorian faces when his lovely wife gave away her origins with her accent was more than enough reward for making the match. The genuine feelings he had come to nurture for her were a bonus, as was her willingness to be in his presence; he had expected a capable wife and administrator from the bargain, but he hadn’t dared hope for tenderness from someone who by all rights should have been as terrified of his reputation as the young messenger.

“Yes, an unfortunate habit of mine, it would seem,” Zhubin agreed placidly, amused by the way her eyes glittered with mirth.

“You have the look of Lord Halven, if I were to guess your house. What is your name?” she asked kindly, turning back to the messenger and ignoring the way Zhubin’s hand curled around her hip, bringing her close enough to surround him with the scent of rosewater.

“Ma-Maewon, my Lady, son of Halvion, son of Halven,” he stuttered, eyes wide. Zhubin pulled out a dagger, catching the light with the blade – he might have made peace with the King, but after a lifetime of piracy unnerving Gondorians would never cease to be a favourite pastime.

“I am Lady Glingaeril of Gobel Mírlond,” she replied, “though I was born in Dol Amroth. What news do you bring from the North?” Ignoring Zhubin’s theatre – she had only been his wife for little more than a year, but already seemed to know when he was putting on an act – Glingaeril kept her grey gaze on the fidgety messenger, who cleared his throat a couple of times, glancing nervously at Zhubin’s nimble play.

“The.. err… King Elessar of the Reunited Kingdoms sends word to the Lord of Gobel Mírlond that he is sending an armed force to quell the insurgence led by the man known as ‘The Son of Sauron’, and expects you to fulfil your obligations by sending a levy of troops to aid in this venture. The King expects to garrison at Amon Eithel, from whence to march upon the enemy.” Zhubin blinked a couple of times; the young man’s speech had been hastened by his nerves, and it took a few mental repetitions to sort out the jumble of words in his mind.

“Well, then, it seems our lovely Azarpari arrived just in time,” he murmured to himself, patting Glingaeril’s hip and rising from his seat to tower over both of them. The blood of Númenor ran thin, these days, but Zhubin had inherited a large share of it, standing taller than most men in Harnendor. The messenger did his best not to pale, though he did not quite manage to stop his gaze darting to the wicked edge of the dagger Zhubin still held carelessly. “I am sure you will want to hear news from home, my Blossom,” he said, permission and order in one. Glingaeril smiled, turning her face up to kiss his cheek, before herding the messenger out of his study.

Zhubin sank back into his chair, pensively resting his chin on his fist. It was to be war, then, and Azarpari  had been proven correct once again. Zhubin would never understand the ways of wizards, but he thought he should consider himself lucky that she seemed fond of him; with the warning she had sent along before she took ship in Umbar, he had already dispatched a number of associates to report back from Amrûn and further east.

Reaching for a rope attached to the wall, he pulled it thrice, though he did not hear the sound of the bell attached to the opposite end of the cord.

“Amir Zhubin?” the summoned page asked, bowing.

“Get me Captain Maecheneb, and find Mistress Azarpari for me.” Zhubin ordered, pouring himself a glass of coconut water, staring out at the window that overlooked the ancient Gardens of Mûrabeth where his lovely wife was walking on the arm of the young messenger boy, laughing at something or other.

 

* * *

 

 

They crossed the Poros with no trouble, making their way south through the warm lands of northern Harondor along the Hyarmentie.

“This is what the Númenoreans considered a _road_?” Éomer asked, staring south. The roadway stretching before them was raised almost six feet above the ground level, and thirty feet wide. Faramir chuckled, riding beside his good-brother.

“The South Road runs from Pelargir to somewhere beyond the desert known as the Dune Sea, all the way to the other side of the Yellow Mountains.” He gestured towards the far-off horizon.

“The Road was built to connect the colonies of the Black Númenoreans in the vast South Lands with Gondor in the north, and, though many of them have been lost to the vagaries of time, the Road remains,” Aragorn added.

“Some say it goes on forever,” Faramir grinned, “but official surviving records claim that the road stretches for 4,500 miles.” These days, no one had reason to discover the truth of the road, for the Far Lands of the Sun were inhabited only by wild tribes.

“That’s not why my men are impressed, brother,” Éomer laughed, gesturing to the league-stone they were passing in that moment. “Each of these stones we have seen have meant a well, a cistern, or an aqueduct; our horses won’t suffer when the heat rises.” For a moment, Aragorn just stared at him, but then his amusement won out, laughing loudly.

“Rohirrim and their horses!” Faramir groaned, smiling widely, “I should have known!”

Éomer swept him a mock bow from his saddle, his blue eyes glittering in the sunlight. “I see my sister has already begun to wear you down,” he grinned back. Faramir laughed.

Aragorn shook his head. “Well, you’re not wrong, Éomer; the weather will get a lot warmer further south. The foot soldiers will appreciate the fresh water, too.”

“And the wells continue all the way?” Éomer asked, scratching Firefoot’s mane. The grey bay tossed his head lightly, snorting softly. The horses were not used to the heat – nor were most of the men, truly – and the cool drink was appreciated by all even though the weather was no more than summery by the standards of Rohan.

“Every league-stone should have one,” Faramir said, nodding.

“Some have been destroyed by the wars that have been waged back and forth the past 1500 years,” Aragorn said, “Amir Zhubin sent reports on the state of the Hyarmentie in Harondor.”

 

* * *

 

They continued along the Hyarmentie for more than a week, until they reached the walled town of Amon Eithel situated below the ancient fortress on the hill that shared its name.

“Amonost,” Aragorn said, nodding towards the imposing fortress once built by the Númenorians, though it had been added to in the millennia since – and torn down, and rebuilt – by less skilled hands. “We will make our camp here, and send word down the Hyarmentie to Gobel Mírlond that King Elessar has come to Harondor.” Éomer whistled a low sound, giving the stone structure a fascinated look.

“One of the fortresses made by the Men of Númenor before the Fall,” Faramir interjected. “We don’t have their skill with stone these days.”

Aragorn thought of Osgiliath and the rebuilding both there and in Minas Tirith they had worked on since the War. “The Shipkings build impressive structures,” he agreed, “though our friendship with Gimli has lent itself to the arrival of a few stonemasons from Erebor, whose skills are no less impressive.”

Éomer nodded thoughtfully. “Helms Deep was made by the Men of Númenor, but we do not have many remnants of their people in the Riddermark.” Then he grinned boyishly, winking at Aragorn. “But perhaps _my_ friendship with Lord Gimli will result in new trades taken up among my people; the Rohirrim have never built much in stone.” Aragorn laughed brightly. It truly was a new Age of friendship between the Free Peoples of Middle-Earth. Already, Legolas’ kin had done wonders in Ithilien, healing the land and making it green once more, and his own people were slowly losing their ingrown worry about the Darkness in the East and the North, becoming the bright souls he had always known they possessed.

Setting up camp at the foot of Amon Eithel was no hardship; the Riders were used to sleeping under canvas or stars as the weather permitted when they patrolled the Mark, and under Faramir’s efficient command his own soldiers had soon constructed a sprawling collection of tents and cookfires.

Amon Eithel was home to a few thousand people who lived in the town plus the couple hundred who manned the fort above and were well-supplied by the new Master of Gobel Mírlond. Aragorn was pleased that his leap of faith in appointing the man known in Gondor as Zhubin the Wavestrider to the post of Governor in Harondor had not proven to be folly. Arwen had been the one to wonder whether the locals might not feel more kindly towards a man who had been born and raised in Harnendor rather than a foreigner – it had been so long since Harondor had truly been part of Gondor that it felt like an almost independent state within the Kingdom.

Sea-Lord Zhubin had been pegged as a shrewd mind and, more importantly, one of the only leaders in the area who had not sided with Sauron’s forces and attacked Pelargir during the War. In truth, there had been a lack of suitable Southron candidates for the post – most of the chieftains who had followed the Black Serpent had ended in graves on the Pelennor, after all – and Zhubin was deemed the most influential man left in Harondor. It had galled Imrahil as well as several other coastal lords, but no matter how much Zhubin had raided the coast of Gondor in the past, even Imrahil had to agree that the man was a capable leader who could give Harondor some much-needed stability.

Aragorn chuckled to himself. _Stability_. When he was growing up in Rivendell, he had never even considered that he might have to make deals with men like Zhubin, but the accursed need for _stability_ had won out over his own distaste, and he had issued a formal pardon to the notorious pirate in return for his help.

The fact that Aragorn had rather liked the man – even if he was a bit more colourful than most Gondorians cared for – when he met him in Dol Amroth to negotiate the deal had galled him at the time, but travelling through Harondor, still showing evidence of the destruction of the War, but quite far in the process of being rebuilt, he had to admit that this decision might yet turn out to have been wise.

 

* * *

 

 

“You wished to speak with me, Amir Zhubin?” Rómestámo asked, walking silently into the study. Abbas followed close behind, taking his task seriously even in this house of friends.

“Have I not asked you to dispense with the ‘Amir’, old friend?” Zhubin retorted, giving her a wry smile and turning away from the window.

“Sometimes, I think you need to hear even me say it,” she replied evenly, “even if it simply reminds you how far we have walked together since the day I first met a small boy in the dusty backstreets of Amrûn.” Zhubin laughed.

“Sometimes, old friend, I forget how vexing you are when you stay away for too long,” he muttered, but his voice was fond and the words garnered no more than a smile in response. Zhubin sighed. “However, you were right, as always, and my own agents in Amrûn have only confirmed what I feared: Jahangir’s youngest son is the one calling himself ‘Son of Sauron’ and gathering forces, though my sources tell me it is a certain Amir Zerang who holds the reins in truth.”

“Jahangir’s son…? I thought they all went to war with their father…” Rómestámo said thoughtfully. Zhubin shrugged.

“Siavash was apparently never much use for warfare,” Zhubin added, rubbing his thumb across an old scar on his left forearm – a memento of Jahangir’s displeasure at Zhubin’s refusal to join his fleet that he had only survived because of the talents of the woman before him. “He likes his pleasure, his women, and his wine, but he is no great thinker; the men think him craven. I suspect Jahangir left him behind, nominally in charge but controlled by this Amir Zerang, who seems to have appeared from thin air – there is no story I can find out behind the person before they walked into Jahangir’s house, bearing papers naming them to Siavash’s Council.” Rómestámo shrugged; having known Jahangir, it was not beyond the realm of possibility that he could have turned a craven son into a puppet for someone better able to make use of his legacy.

“No word at all?” Rómestámo frowned.

“Amir Zerang is a eunuch, apparently; no one has ever seen them without the esgal of their caste.” Zhubin shuddered lightly; it might be an accepted practice in Harnendor, but he still considered it mutilation – growing up as a street-urchin in Amrûn, he had known more than one boy snapped up by the Dark One’s priests and forced to join their servants.

“Unusual.” She moved towards the window, the light breeze catching a lock of her hair. Moving to stand beside her, Zhubin looked out across the Gardens, smiling at the light laughter coming from a little girl jumping across the narrow aqueducts.

 

* * *

 

When Maecheneb arrived, his nostrils were flaring in anger, the golden ring in his nose swapped for a stud bearing a tear-drop shaped ruby.

“There is a watch on the house here, and three of your ships in the harbour,” Maecheneb spat, not even bothering with a greeting. Zhubin raised an eyebrow at the younger man; Maecheneb was his eldest son, and one of the Captains in his employ he trusted unconditionally.

“Whose spies?” he asked, “And why only three of my ships?” Considering he currently had five ships docked in Gobel Mírlond – five vessels known to be his, at any rate – only watching three of them seemed incongruent with the meticulous nature his own agents reported in Amir Zerang.

“By now, it should be none; I gave orders to have them detained and escorted here for questioning,” Maecheneb smirked, his golden tooth winking in the light of the lamp. Zhubin laughed. “As far as I could make out, the man who was watching my own Lady worked for Amir Zerang of Amrûn. A new name, spoken only in whispers, but not someone trying to build themselves as a corsair.”

“Always a step ahead, Mae,” Zhubin chuckled, “and that is why you are my favourite son. Amir Zerang is the reason I called for you, however, for the warning our Azarpari delivered has proven true swifter than I had hoped.”

“So this ‘Son of Sauron’ you had me ask about truly intends to go to war with the North?” Maecheneb asked, staring incredulously between Zhubin and the still-seated Azarpari. He cursed.

“I fear it is worse than that,” Zhubin sighed, gesturing to the letter he had been perusing before King Elessar’s messenger arrived. “I am being offered an alliance with Siavash: in return for my cooperation with his ‘new regime’ I may keep my life and my ships. If I refuse, he will sack Ancalimon and all the villages along the Harnen before he arrives here, intending to ‘ _raze Gobel Mírlond to the ground along with every traitorous man, woman, or_ _child’_ he can find.”

Maecheneb cursed again, more colourfully, throwing the letter back down onto the desk as though it was poison. “We do not have enough fighters left to defend the whole river!” he snarled, spinning on his heel and pacing angrily across the floor, twisting the delicate turquoise and gold bracelet that encircled his wrist.

“I know that, son,” Zhubin interrupted, gripping his wrist tightly, “but what we need is a plan. And you will not forgive yourself destroying your mother’s bracelet.” Maecheneb stilled, looking abashed but let go of the bracelet with a sigh.

“Send an envoy to the King,” Azarpari suggested. “This is his enemy as much as it is ours.” Zhubin nodded.

“If you leave here, they will know that you go to meet the North-King, Father,” Maecheneb objected hotly. “Spies are easily replaced; news run swiftly from here to Amrûn for those willing to pay for it.”

“Will he believe my word?” Azarpari asked, frowning; she had heard of the King of the North, though much had been coloured by the recent defeat. Grief could paint mere men as monsters in those left behind, she knew, and the blood of the south ran as hot as the fires of the sun when it was lit by passion. “I am known to be without true allegiance to anyone wishing to be a ruler; and if this Amir Zerang is as clever as we believe, they wouldn’t dare attack _me_.”

“Apparently, the White Wizard is a personal friend of King Elessar,” Zhubin replied, “I do not think you will be met with mistrust.” Of course, believing that Azarpari was the Blue Wizard did not necessarily mean the King would believe she had come from Zhubin. “As for Amir Zerang, I should almost wish them the courage to make an attempt on your life; it might solve all our problems at once.” Chuckling to himself, Zhubin released his son’s wrist, taking his place behind his desk once more.

“Curunir?” Azarpari asked softly, looking down at her fingers, loosely wrapped around the mahogany staff she had carried as long as he had known her, the pearl clusters that peeked through the wood here and there trapped in dark blue crystal. Thoughtfully, Azarpari traced one of the whorls of wood. “I did not think he left Orthanc unless he had to… certainly not for Kings of Men.” Zhubin shrugged.

“That is what I have been told; the White Wizard healed the old King of Rohan and then he aided the King of Gondor in the War.” At least, that was the story in Pelargir, and he had no reason to mistrust the stories he had heard in the taverns there; they were too consistent across the board to be fabrications.

“This does not solve the trouble of Siavash’ army. My eyes and ears in Amrûn claim he has a sizeable force already moving towards Ancalimon. Even if we could get word to King Elessar in time, Siavash’ forces would arrive before he could.” Nodding at Maecheneb, Zhubin tapped the letter with his dagger, hoping for a flash of inspiration that wasn’t likely to get hundreds of people murdered for the folly of a boy playing at being a man.

“If you let ‘The Son of Sauron’,” Azarpari’s mouth twisted, as though the word tasted foul, “take Ancalimon, pretending at friendship with him, you can catch him between us and King Elessar on the plains north of the cliffs…”

“If he believes I am on his side in secret; perhaps held captive here in Gobel Mírlond by the soldiers that belong to King Elessar … yes, it might work.” Zhubin mused, one thumb stroking the wicked edge of his favourite curved blade as he listened to them. “It is a risky proposition, however,” he added thoughtfully. “Who is to say this King will go for our plan…? If Siavash takes control of Amrûn, Ancalimon, and Mírlond, the rest of Harondor will follow. If I were in King Elessar’s shoes, I would expect betrayal.”

“Send me in your place; I am known to be your heir, send me as hostage to this North-King,” Maecheneb said. “Few in Gobel Mírlond would think to question my riding for Ausk Harmaka, especially if we spread it about that I am in pursuit of a second wife. Chieftain Babak Aziz has a daughter of agreeable looks, I hear.” Zhubin turned to face him, smirking wryly.

“Is this an attempt at telling me you have settled on the girl already, son?” he chuckled. Maecheneb shook his head vehemently.

“I shouldn’t think my beloved wife would let me keep appendages too dear for me to give up if I were to suggest she share me with another woman.” Maecheneb laughed, “And I should not like her wroth with me; it can’t be good for the child.” Shaking his head, Maecheneb grew serious once more, “Nay, Father, this is only an attempt at keeping your head attached to your shoulders. If I am with the North-King, he will have guarantees that you are not planning to deceive him,” Maecheneb replied, “Azarpari can testify to my identity, and the Master of Amon Eithel is known to me…”

“I do not like this,” Zhubin growled, jumping to his feet and smashing his fists down onto his desk. “I _loathe_ being forced to cower while others fight my battles for me!”

“It is the only way,” Azarpari interrupted. “You cannot move to oppose this Siavash without losing hundreds of lives in the process; lives you are _sworn_ to guard.” Zhubin sat back heavily.

“So be it.” Sighing, he pulled a fresh piece of paper towards him. “See this delivered to Siavash,” he sighed, tipping the crimson wax onto the page to seal it. Pressing his signet ring into the warm wax with a moue of distaste, he looked up at Maecheneb, narrowing his eyes. “And see to it you come back to us undamaged.” Maecheneb bowed.

“Perhaps I will even be a little wiser when I return, Father,” he smiled, his mother’s brilliant green eyes glittering with purpose. Zhubin shook his head, chuckling quietly.

“Aye, and if you do find Babak Aziz’ daughter to your liking, you have my permission to bring her back, too, he said gruffly. Maecheneb scowled. Winking at him, Zhubin gestured towards the door. “Fair winds and calm seas, both of you.”

“Fair winds and calm seas, Father,” Maecheneb replied, bowing. Azarpari just nodded, but Zhubin’s spirit felt strangely lifted by the way she patted his hand when she turned to leave, the distinct sound of her staff hitting the flagstones of the corridor oddly calming.


	4. Chapter 4

Harondor had never been more than tangentially in the Blue Wizards’ purview, but when the Black Númenorians settled in Umbar, Harondor had become an area she checked up on every few decades or so. Its closeness with Gondor meant that despite the proximity to Mordor, Harondor had never had as much to do with the Black Cult of Melkor as the lands further south and east.

“This is the furthest north I have been in more than three thousand years,” Rómestámo said quietly, watching the Amon Eithel appear in the distance. She remembered the fortress being built, hearing an echo of the working songs of its builders in the back of her mind. She would not admit to feeling uneasy, however, riding among strangers; much of the power she wielded came from the perception of her in the minds of the peoples of the East. Beneath her, the pale horse danced lightly, though it remained between Maecheneb’s and Abbas’ mounts. 

“I am with you, Mistress,” Abbas replied bravely, hiding the light quaver to his voice and making her smile. He was young, for one of her companions, and she had taken him very far away from his home on her journey through the lands she had cherished for so long; Abbas had never complained, but Rómestámo knew that he felt the absence of true stone keenly. And yet, he continued to follow her, stubbornly loyal and protective like all who had gone before him. Such stalwart loyalty could not be bought, she knew, only treasured by one lucky enough to have it. “I heard there was a Dwarf who was friends with this Elessar, also, from one of the West-Clans,” Abbas continued, his voice holding a trace of amusement; the eastern Clans were often amused by the relationships between their western cousins and Men. “Longbeard or Firebeard, he may have been, but if a distant cousin of mine can find friendship with this King of Men, perhaps he is worth knowing.”

Rómestámo almost laughed, though Abbas’ words were not truly funny. The concept of ‘being worth knowing’ was ancient among the Orocarnul Clans who held the belief that if they had not at least _heard_ of a stranger, he was not worthy of being known beyond his own halls. On the other hand, anyone they _had_ heard of were usually welcomed even by complete strangers.

“No matter what, I shall be interested to see him for myself; perhaps I shall bring the truth of him to King Isavænn,” he said. She nodded thoughtfully.

“I, too, shall be pleased to hear news of my old friend,” Rómestámo agreed, thinking about the last time she had laid eyes on another member of her order; _Inkā-nūsh_ he was called here, though she did not think the grey-robed Wizard had known her for who she was. Remaining unseen when she wished it was one of the gifts she had retained even in this form, this _hröa_ she had built so very long ago. She had not spoken to him, but she had recognised something in him that spoke to her senses like kin. It had been millennia since she had last walked with Curunir and listened to his delight in the ingenuity of Men even as he despaired at the Darkness that plagued them, feeling guilty that they were meant to imprison someone he had once called brother. “Perhaps his ways have changed since our last meeting – it was so very long ago, after all. Alator was still with me, then.” A gust of wind played with her hair, making Rómestámo smile. Abbas just nodded, flicking his reins.

 

* * *

 

 

When the watch posted on the southern walls sent up a call, Aragorn scaled the heights with Faramir and Éomer behind him, straining their eyes against the hazy light and trying to peer through the cloud of dust that had appeared on the horizon.

“It’s coming up the Hyarmentie,” he said, lifting a hand to shield his eyes. “It may be the levies I sent for from Gobel Mírlond.”

“That’s the banner of Zhubin Wavestrider,” Amrothos exclaimed, pointing towards the rapidly growing cloud of dust where indistinct forms could be discerned amid the whirling sands kicked up by their horses. “I don’t know that banner beside his, though…”

Aragorn stared. The wave and dagger of Zhubin’s house he had seen before, but the strange sigil was new to him, too. It was not from Umbar, he thought, sharing no characteristics common to the corsairs. He briefly wondered why it was foreign; his journeys in Harad had brought him far and wide, encountering all the banners of the most powerful corsairs. Whoever rode beneath this banner had to be a figure of some import to warrant riding beside the person in charge. The cloth was blue, though the sigil itself had been formed in reds and oranges, appearing to be on fire – a strangely angular symbol that reminded him of Gimli’s recently designed sigil for Aglarond more than of any of the noble houses he had known in his 90 years of life.

“It looks a bit Dwarven,” Éomer replied, following the path of the rider beneath the banner who was also dressed in blues, a hood pulled up to shield their face against the dust, “but it is a woman riding, I reckon.” Beside him, Amrothos nodded his agreement. Quietly, Aragorn wished that he had Elladan’s eyes; he preferred to know who was coming to meet him well in advance – being King required vastly different manners and diplomacy than being a General or a Ranger. In Harad, especially, proper address mattered, though his own Gondorian nobles were just as easily slighted by a perceived lack of respect.

“I suppose we will learn when we meet them,” Aragorn said, wondering which of his Captains Zhubin had sent to command his troops. Imrahil had left several officers trained in the Tower Guard to assist in the protection of Gobel Mírlond when it was won, and the reports Aragorn regularly received on the state of affairs in the south claimed that they had been well accepted by their new Lord and the people of the city.

 

* * *

 

It _was_ a woman, Aragorn realised, watching her dismount with the grace of a born rider – or an elf – and hand her reins to a squat darkhaired dwarf with a grim expression and a grimmer collection of weapons strapped to his person. The dwarf’s black beard was decorated with finely worked gold that spoke of some wealth – and enough skill with his weapons to keep it, which was telling in its own way. Gimli was a fine warrior, and a fierce foe in battle, but Aragorn thought he might still bet on the strange Dwarf if he had to pick a winner in a match between them.

“Hail King Elessar and well met on this day!” The darkhaired Southron who was riding next to the cloaked and hooded woman was the one who hailed him; Aragorn had nearly missed his presence entirely, lost in the mystery of the woman. The man looked of an age with Amrothos – in truth, he looked as though he could have been a relation, sharing the black hair and the rather distinctive nose of the Princes of Dol Amroth. Aragorn nodded a return greeting.

“I am Elessar,” he replied. The stranger swung himself off his mount with a litheness that belied his size; the man was taller than most men he had met who were not Dúnedain, standing on even footing with Aragorn himself.

“And I am Maecheneb, Captain of the Lady of Tears and son and heir of Zhubin the Many-Coloured, Master of Gobel Mírlond and Governor of Harondor.” Amrothos gasped lightly, his brother tightening his grip on his sword. “Welcome to Harondor!” Maecheneb bowed politely, stretching both empty hands out before him in a gesture of respect. Aragorn took a step forward to take one, as customs dictated, but he was interrupted by an angry voice.

“ _Blackheart_!” Amrothos spat. The self-proclaimed Captain laughed, and Aragorn recognised the laugh as that of Zhubin himself. Studying the man, he noted more than a little resemblance between Zhubin and this man, enough to make him believe the truth of Maecheneb’s claim to Zhubin’s name, at least.

“Is that what you call me in Dol Amroth?” he asked, green eyes glittering. “My dear departed mother would be so proud,” he added, smirking when only Erchirion’s grip prevented Amrothos from lunging at him, a steel dagger glittering in his hand. “What is it this time?” he asked placidly, though, he, too, was suddenly wielding a dagger, disinterestedly cleaning his nails. “Did I fire a village? Steal your ship?” Amrothos snarled in response.

“Captain Maecheneb -” Aragorn began once more, but his greeting was once more interrupted by a Dol Amroth voice.

“I am Prince Erchirion of Dol Amroth,” Erchirion growled, “and you know perfectly well what you did to us, _Blackheart!_ ”

Shooting a dark look at Erchirion, which quelled his vehemence slightly though it did little to smother the fire lit in those otherwise cool grey eyes, Aragorn took a step closer to Maecheneb. Éomer clapped a large palm onto his good-brother’s shoulder, pulling him back with ease and hissing a low warning in his ear.

“Ah,” Maecheneb chuckled, “but I haven’t been to Dor-en-Ernil in years, Prince Erchirion.” Nodding, he returned the dagger to somewhere Aragorn’s eyes missed. “I have no quarrel with you,” he shrugged, holding out his palms in a gesture of peace. Amrothos was not appeased.

“Amrothos, _enough_.” Aragorn’s low warning stopped the brothers continuing their argument, but neither relaxed his posture, and Éomer’s restraining hand never left Erchirion’s shoulder. “I bid you welcome among us, Captain Maecheneb. This is Éomer, King of Rohan, and Faramir, Prince of Ithilien.” Behind the woman, the Dwarf remained, the reins of their horses clasped loosely in one hand though his other remained close to the handle of the curved sword at his side, watching Aragorn’s party warily. Faramir, proving himself once more adept at reading the moods in a group, quietly removed both Dol Amroth Princes, shepherding them towards the large tent used by Aragorn. With an internal sigh – he would have to reprimand the brothers later, and get to the bottom of their animosity; it was unlike Imrahil’s sons to be so hostile – Aragorn nodded at the younger man, who took his wary eyes off Amrothos to bow once more. Holding out his hand, Aragorn allowed Captain Maecheneb to press his lips against the signet of Gondor.

When he straightened, Maecheneb waved at a young man behind him, who moved forward, bowing deeply to Aragorn. “Allow me to present to you this gift, King Elessar, as a sign of our friendship.” The young man remained at a distance, his eyes darting across the grim faces on either side of Aragorn before a low word from the woman in the blue cloak shocked him into motion. Unwrapping the scarlet silk, he revealed a finely crafted chest, inlaid with mother-of-pearl and made of a reddish wood with golden hinges and intricate gold designs around the rim and the lock. “A rosewood chest from beyond the Dune Sea,” Maecheneb said, waving a ringed hand towards the chest. The young man opened it, carefully not looking any higher than Aragorn’s knees, revealing a double row of small carved figurines. “The white ones are carved from ivory – mumakil tusks – and the black ones are made of ebony. Lady Glingaeril told us they play Shah in Minas Tirith, though the rules are slightly different to ours. Father is partial to a game of Shah, himself, and thought you might enjoy this set.”

“Thank you for this thoughtful gift, Captain Maecheneb,” Aragorn replied, reaching into the box to pick up one of the black pieces, sanded smooth and decorated with finely worked gold. Setting it back into the silk lining, he gestured at his squire, who moved forward to take the chest from the young man. “I am sure it will delight the Queen and I to play with such exquisite craftsmanship.”

“I, too, have brought a gift, King Elessar, in honour of your triumphs against the Lord of Mordor,” the cloaked woman said. For the first time, Maecheneb looked slightly sheepish, and Aragorn once more wondered who exactly the woman was. Her voice was calm, pleasantly mellifluous, and bore faint traces of an accent he could not place.

 “I forget my manners, King Elessar,” Maecheneb said hastily, moving back to stand beside the woman. “Allow me to introduce to you our most Ancient Benefactress Azarpari, She Who Guides, known in this part of the world as The Eyes of Truth and Rómestámo, Th-” The woman put her hand on Maecheneb’s arm, interrupting the litany of titles and making him fall silent.

Lifting her hands, Azarpari lowered her hood, her golden eyes taking in every aspect of his being in a way he had only felt once or twice before. Aragorn suddenly felt transported back to the first time he met the fabled Mithrandir. This lady had the same indefinable air of knowledge, something in her eyes that spoke of mysteries beyond the ken of Men or Elves. He felt a light shiver travel up his spine, but managed to remain apparently unaffected. The wizard smiled.

“I have many names, King Elessar,” she said, “as does my old friend Olórin, whose hand has touched your fate, I see. You may call me Azarpari or Rómestámo, as you please. I am the last of the Blue Wizards of the East.” She bowed her head, which made the dwarf follow suit, though his bow was considerably deeper. “My companion is Abbas, of the Blacklock Clan of the Orocarni.” Aragorn stared. His eyes flicked to the staff she held, finely wrought wood surrounding clusters of what looked like pearls fixed in blue crystal as though they had grown together. Azarpari shifted the staff from one hand to the other, a gesture he remembered from Gandalf, both before and after his death in Moria.

“Well met, Lady Azarpari,” Aragorn said, nodding thoughtfully. The wizard returned his nod with a graceful tilt of her head, but her calm did not reassure him much. “I had believed that Gandalf was the last of your order in Middle-Earth… he told me so himself, in fact.” And Saruman had shouted it at him, asked him about the five staves once. Azarpari tilted her head.

“Gandalf… yes, that is a name I have heard, though the people of the East have called him _Inkā-nūsh – North-spy_.” She smiled, her eyes glittering strangely. Aragorn felt wary; Saruman’s treachery had made him more cautious, wondering if this lady could be trusted to have the best interest of his people at heart. At least it seemed her companions believed so, and he found his doubts diminishing, though it still remained to discover whether _this_ wizard was worthy of trust or not. “Olórin is not a popular character in these lands, King Elessar.”

“And why have you chosen to reveal yourself to me?” Aragorn asked, feeling slightly stung on behalf of his departed friend.

“Because you are the King of Gondor, whatever good or ill that may bring for the peoples I consider my own,” Azarpari replied, tapping the end of her staff against the hard dirt. “This land is my bones and skin, and I am its keeper, the guard that stands against the darkness wherever it may be found.” Aragorn did not like the way her eyes seemed to see through him, but he understood feeling protective of a place that was yours to guard; was that not what the Dúnedain had been doing since the fall of Arnor? “Sauron was defeated, but the darkness he inspired in the hearts of Men linger and fester… I heard a threat in the wind; _The Son of Sauron_ , it told me, and I _will not_ abandon those who need my protection!” As she spoke, wind whipped around her, snapping back the sea-blue cloak and tangling in her hair. For a moment, Azarpari looked like the centre of a tiny hurricane, but then she sighed and the wind gentled, licking at a fold of cloth here or a lock of hair there. “I had thought my task ended with the destruction of Barad-dûr, but the appearance of this impostor has forced me to abandon my plan to return to my home.”

“Perhaps these are words better had in private council,” Faramir said quietly, reappearing at Aragorn’s shoulder, his words breaking the train of Aragorn’s thoughts. Éomer nodded; he looked suspicious of the lady who claimed to be a wizard, and with good reason, Aragorn thought, remembering the machinations of Gríma and Saruman all too easily.

“My men will set up our accommodations while we share the news from Mírlond and Amrûn,” Maecheneb said, offering his arm to Azarpari who nodded silently. The dwarf followed with a dark look in Aragorn’s direction that gave him a feeling of being judged and found wanting.

 

“I had not expected another wizard’s interference in matters of Men after Gandalf sailed west with the Keepers of the Three,” Aragorn repeated, once they had settled around the map table in his command tent. Abbas shot him a dark glare, standing behind Azarpari’s right shoulder. The blue-robed wizard shrugged fluidly, resting on a small chair as her yellow-gold eyes catalogued everything in sight with the same unsettling keen gaze Gandalf had had.  

“It was our task,” she began, her voice low and slow as though the words were difficult to find, “mine and Alator’s, to defy Sauron, to reduce his presence and power in the East where he would claim dominion.” Azarpari spoke softly, seemingly staring at something far away. “When the Great War was done,” a distasteful grimace crossed her face swiftly, “and Isildur failed at destroying the seed of his inevitable demise…” shaking her head, she fell silent.

Aragorn winced slightly, but, somehow, he did not think Azarpari was judging his long-ago ancestor; not like Elrond had done, at least. Azarpari lifted her head, looking straight at him as though she could see through his skin and pierce his soul with her ancient eyes, glowing with light he had seen only in the eyes of Galadriel; the eyes of one who had seen the Trees. When he opened his mouth to ask, however, Azarpari continued softly.

“To us the task was given of finding Sauron, while Curumo remained in the North, aiming to guide the Free Peoples.” She sighed, and once more she looked like she was many miles from her body. Faramir, whose eyes glittered in the way he had come to know meant the Prince of Ithilien was in pursuit of knowledge, opened his mouth to ask something, but Aragorn gestured for silence. “If we had not _failed_ then,” she continued, old guilt colouring her voice, “if… if Alator had not been slain defeating the last of the Dragons that plagued the Orocarni… much may have been different.” Her face seemed more lined now, grief untouched by the passing of time hiding in the deep lines. Abbas patted her shoulder, the light from the hastily lit lamps catching in the design stamped into the golden charms attached to his chain bracelet.

“Morinehtar saved many; his sacrifice will not be forgotten.” The dwarf’s voice was deep and pleasant like Gimli’s though his words carried a different accent. Azarpari smiled, reaching up to squeeze his thick fingers.

“So you arrived in Middle-Earth before Mithrandir?” Faramir asked, unable to stop his mind from its favourite scholarly pursuits. Azarpari nodded.

“I have walked the lands of Endorë for more than four thousand and eight hundred years,” she replied, “and for three thousand of them, the Dwarrow of the Orocarni have been my steadfast companions and friends, fulfilling the Oath of their King. Abbas will be my last companion before I take my leave of these lands that I have guarded.”

“To serve the Ancient One is to bring honour to one’s family,” Abbas said, “for we trust in our Lady of Magic here, in ways you of the North do not trust this… Mithrandir, you call him.” Baring his teeth in a grin, Abbas tapped one of the beads in his hair.

“This is truth,” Maecheneb added, “even those who serve the cult of Melkor and work towards Sauron’s dominion as Lord of Men respect the power of Azarpari; I have heard of places where she is considered a speaker for the gods and temples are raised in her honour.” When Azarpari snapped her head around to glare at him, he gave her a boyish grin and winked. “You know it is true, Ancient Mistress of Winds.” Aragorn stared, wondering if he had ever heard anyone speak so insouciantly to Gandalf and halfway worried that the temper they had already witnessed her share with the other members of her order would erupt again. “This, to me, is much different than the stories I have heard of your grey pilgrim.” Zhubin shrugged. Azarpari frowned, but did not reply.

“Gandalf would not want a cult of followers,” Aragorn replied, hiding his wince when his words make the dwarf snarl at him. Azarpari’s eyes flashed golden. “I still do not know why you have arrived here in place of the levies I commanded Amir Zhubin to send,” Aragorn pointed out, surprised by the dark expression that crossed Maecheneb’s face at his words. 

“Perhaps your Gandalf would have done differently in my place,” she said placidly, “but we are not here to debate philosophy or retell ancient history. Will you accept that I am here to aid your cause, North-King, or will you not?”

 

* * *

 

 

Zhubin’s letter was worrying, but Siavash was too blind to see it. Anahit snarled to herself, striding into her chambers and missing the wooden heels on the shoes she had worn when she was Anahit rather than Zerang; silent slippers did not provide the same vocally angry feeling as hard shoes hitting the floor.

If a man like _Zhubin_ _Wavestrider_ could have been taken captive by the North-King’s men, Anahit would eat Siavash’s slippers; Zhubin was far too canny to be caught off guard, as proven by the fates of the men she had sent to spy on him. It was true that Zhubin remained in his house in Gobel Mírlond, but Anahit had a hard time believing him a prisoner of anyone, much less King Elessar whose hold on Harondor remained tenuous.

Pacing back and forth within her chambers, Anahit cursed her half-wit half-brother, replaying the scene from that afternoon’s council session over and over.

_…“We will take Ancalimon, and turn north,” Siavash said, dismissing the war council with a wave of his hand. All of Anahit’s carefully laid out arguments obviously ignored by the Son of Sauron she had created, dismissing the concerns of ‘Amir Zerang’ with little care beyond what he believed to be true._

_“Amir Siavash,” Anahit said, “perhaps we should discuss this; I have reports that The Ancient One is riding north – something she has not done since your late father was a toddler!” Siavash tuned his gaze on her then, narrowed in displeasure._

_“I have, **in my hand** , a letter of surrender from Zhubin the Many-coloured,” he hissed, “and you would have me waste resources on taking a city that is already mine by right?” _

_Anahit ground her teeth, but she kept her voice low and soothing as she tried again. “I feel that the movements of Azarpari are worthy of consideration; last I heard of her, she was leaving Umbar for Gobel Mírlond aboard one of Zhubin’s ships!”_

_“What do I care about an old woman wanderer?” Siavash said, chuckling disdainfully. Around the table covered in maps and markers signifying their forces, the chieftains and generals Siavash had appointed – most of them at **her** urging, which only made it more galling – nodded, agreeing with not regard for the bigger picture. Only one of them had hesitated, but he seemed to realise – as Anahit did in that moment – that Amir Zerang was losing control of the venture, and added his voice to Siavash’s supporters with a glance of regret her way… _

Throwing a vase of flowers against the mosaic tiles of the wall and listening to the glass shatter brought her no satisfaction.

 

* * *

 

 

“You are telling us to allow this insurgency?!” Aragorn cried, jumping to his feet and staring at Maecheneb. Out of the corner of his eye, he spotted Erchirion and Amrothos scowling at their guest – they had entered the tent in silence, but he still wanted to get to the bottom of their uncommon animosity towards the Captain. If Harondor still had been a principality, they would rank equal to Maecheneb, and he had no interest in fostering more bad blood between provinces that already had more than enough of it shed between them.

“We are offering you a way to save the lives of the people who look to you as their ruler,” Maecheneb replied, holding up his hands in a gesture of surrender. “My father has few options left to him – we simply do not have the men necessary to defeat Siavash if he chooses to besiege Gobel Mírlond.”

“Amir Siavash is afforded protection from the title he has unrightfully claimed,” Azarpari added, which did not make Aragorn feel more convinced about the viability of their plan. “He may not be wise, but he has advisors who know how to play on the fear of a people; he did not just send his ultimatum to Zhubin’s home, he also spread it in the bazaar and the barracks.”

“So if this Governor of yours makes move against the Son of Sauron,” Éomer said, his face grim, “Siavash will punish the people of Harondor.” Azarpari nodded silently, her fingers drumming on the smooth wood of her staff.

“Who’s to say this wasn’t Zubin’s plan all along?” Erchirion asked. “The man is a notorious corsair; who’s to say he hasn’t decided that having a King in Gondor doesn’t suit his interests?”

“I have to agree,” Aragorn sighed, looking at Maecheneb with some regret. He had believed, at the conclusion of their meeting, that Zhubin was trustworthy and valuable in the post of vassal lord.

“Father said you would expect betrayal,” Maecheneb sighed, closing his green eyes for a moment, “which is why I offered myself as a hostage against his cooperation.” Aragorn was not the only taken aback at that offer; Faramir’s narrowed eyes were staring at Maecheneb as though he hoped to discern the motives of the man through observation alone.

“I am not only here to aid you, King Elessar,” Azarpari added, her golden eyes seemingly burning into Aragorn’s soul. “I am also here to vouch for Zhubin’s intentions. It is known that you are friendly with one of the Istari, and Zhubin felt my presence might lend his plan more credence; sway you towards patience.”

Aragorn sighed. “Explain this plan to us, once more,” he commanded, raising a hand to silence Erchirion’s imminent protests.

 

 

Aragorn dismissed Captain Maecheneb and Lady Azarpari from the command tent once the Southron had finished explaining the plan Zhubin had concocted. Éomer ducked out to confer with Éothain and his captains, but the Princes of Dol Amroth and Ithilien remained, Faramir leaning over the maps left on the table trying to decide on the best location to construct an ambush.

“I don’t trust this Zhubin!” Erchirion exploded almost as soon as the cloth flap fell closed. Faramir's head snapped up, but his cousin did not heed the warning in his narrowed eyes. “Or his _son_!”

“Enough, cousin!” Faramir replied, leaning over the maps, annotated by Azarpari’s light pen, revealing the terrain south of their current position. Slamming his fists onto the table, the usually mild-tempered Prince rose to his full height, his eyes stormy as he stared at his cousin. “I don’t know why you act this way, Erchirion, but you are disrespecting our _King_ , not to mention a man whose friendship the stability of this region depends on!”

“It’s _Blackheart_ , Faramir!” Amrothos interrupted, jumping to his feet and moving to stand beside Erchirion who looked pale.

“One of you better explain yourself, _immediately_ ,” Aragorn said, studying the both of them across the maps. He needed answers, because to his eyes the plan Zhubin had concocted seemed the only true option if he wished to avoid vast civilian losses. “Imrahil sent you with me to be of help, but so far I’ve seen little of his temper in either of you.” Amrothos had the grace to wince, though Erchirion didn’t react past a light twitch of his mouth, still glaring at Faramir.

“Calithilien,” he said quietly, slumping into a chair. Faramir’s spine stiffened slightly, his gaze softening.

“Maecheneb was…” he began, falling silent when Amrothos nodded.

“Who is Calithilien?” Aragorn asked, his fingers drumming impatiently on his thigh.

“She was the only daughter of one of Father’s vassal Lords,” Erchirion explained. “She was a playmate of mine growing up; it’s my belief that she would eventually have become my wife, if her father could convince ours.” Shaking his head, he sighed. “It wasn’t a fate either of us wanted; I never saw her as anything but a sister, and she felt much the same for me, I wager. Lothíriel was devastated when she heard Calithilien had been kidnapped by the notorious Corsair of Umbar, Blackheart.”

“She was never seen again,” Amrothos said, staring at his feet.

“And you are certain this Maecheneb is _that_ corsair?” Aragorn asked. Erchirion nodded woodenly. Aragorn sighed, getting to his feet and moving to the opening of the tent to call for his squire. “Bring Captain Maecheneb back here, I wish to have a word,” he said, following the boy’s slight figure as it wove between tents towards the Mírlond encampment. Maecheneb had brought a dozen men in all, and the tents they had raised were brightly colourful silk constructions far more decorative than the utilitarian Rohirric green ones that dominated the Gondorian side of the camp.

“What is there to talk about?” Amrothos cried, but Erchirion kept him from jumping back up, Faramir’s glare a warning that continued displays of temper unbefitting his station would not be tolerated. Aragorn had to hide a smile. Sometimes, he thought, Faramir was more aware of the deference he was owed as King than Aragorn himself; life as a Ranger was far simpler than Gondorian etiquette, after all.

“I want to get a better idea of Maecheneb’s character,” Aragorn replied, waving Faramir back to his seat. “I want to know if he is guilty of the crime you are accusing him of having committed.”

 

 

“You wished to speak with me, my King?” Maecheneb asked, ducking into the tent. “Have you decided on a plan…” his voice petered out when he registered the dark tension in the tent. Aragorn stood behind his desk, one hand resting idly on a map of Harnendor.

“I want to speak of something else,” he said evenly. “It has been brought to my attention that you kidnapped and murdered a highborn lady from Dor-en-Ernil, and I’d like to hear what you have to say.”

“You are thinking about my business with the lovely Lady Calithilien,” Maecheneb said, looking far too pleased for a man accused of murder. Faramir had wisely put himself between the Haruze captain and his younger cousin, but that did not stop Amrothos from jumping up to glare at Maecheneb.

“Amrothos!” Aragorn snapped, but the two brothers paid him no mind. He sighed, reminded of Gimli and Legolas. Sharing a glance with Faramir, Aragorn held up a hand to halt the brewing tempers, but both sides ignored him, stepping up to glare at each other.

“You dare speak her name!” Erchirion growled, and now Éomer, who had returned shortly after the squire had gone to find Maecheneb, was holding the elder Prince of Dol Amroth back. Aragorn looked from one side to the other, noting the way the Southron’s eyes narrowed, his hand twitching towards the scarlet silk sash tied around his waist that hid several wicked daggers in Aragorn’s experience with corsairs.

“Should a man not speak the name of _his wife_ , Prince Erchirion?” Maecheneb’s green eyes flashed with anger. Amrothos and Erchirion both looked flabbergasted. Even Faramir’s usual control slipped long enough for him to throw an incredulous glance in the Southron’s direction.

“ _Wife?_ ” Erchirion croaked. Aragorn was beginning to wonder if Zhubin wasn’t the only corsair whose name was blacker than merited. Maecheneb nodded haughtily, his nostrils flaring with anger as he stared Erchirion down.

“Did your father never give you that talk about marrying a woman who could keep you on your toes?” he asked pointedly.

“You’re lying.” Amrothos stated, while Erchirion choked on air beside him. Aragorn closed his eyes for a moment, praying for strength.

“I shan’t tell her you said so,” Maecheneb replied, obviously gritting his teeth to remain polite. Aragorn had to admire his tenacity, if nothing else. “My sweet Callie can be so very temperamental; I wouldn’t put it past her to write to Imrahil himself to complain that her former countrymen attacked her husband.”

“She was like my _sister!_ ” Erchirion shouted. For the first time, Maecheneb looked surprised.

“Oh,” he said, “ _you’re_ Erchie, eh?” Maecheneb asked, studying Erchirion with keen green eyes. The elder prince of Dol Amroth nodded stiffly, his grey eyes still narrowed in anger.

“You are telling us that this Calithilien is alive and well?” Aragorn asked, trying to spot any hint of a lie in Maecheneb’s bearing. The Southron nodded, slipping a hand into the neckline of his loose shirt and drawing out a thin golden chain, a medallion attached to it. The small bit of jewellery was finely crafted, inlaid with patterns of silver forming letters, though the words were an unfamiliar tongue that Aragorn did not know.

Undoing the clasp with a dark thumbnail, he tossed the bit of jewellery at Erchirion, who caught it deftly. “My wife and daughter, Calithilien the Moon-Dancer and Nîlophel.” The two Princes of Dol Amroth bent over the golden medallion studying the miniatures painted within.

“This is Calithilien,” Erchirion mumbled, raising his head to stare at Maecheneb as though he couldn’t quite believe his own eyes.

“Running off with a notorious pirate really wasn’t out of character for her, you know,” Maecheneb said gamely, winking at Aragorn. Erchirion winced. “Though I don’t know why you thought she was dead; she left a letter for her father when she came to me.”

“A letter?” Erchirion croaked. “There was never any mention of a letter! Lord Mithon claimed she had been kidnapped during a raid on a coastal village, no trace of her was ever found…” Erchirion stared aghast at the colourful Maecheneb. Éomer released Amrothos, looking sheepy, but Faramir studied the Captain keenly.

“The old man probably burned it,” Maecheneb said, his insouciant shrug at odds with the seriousness in his eyes, “but I’ll tell Callie to write you with the whole story when I get back to her.”

“If you are satisfied, Prince Erchirion,” Aragorn said drily, noting the way the younger man’s ears were burning, his embarrassment plain despite the dark skin that hid his blush, “mayhap we can turn our minds back to Lord Zhubin’s proposal?” Erchirion nodded tightly, returning Maecheneb’s medallion and making an effort to return to the capable captain at arms that Aragorn had first encountered at Imrahil’s side.

“I believe that Zhubin’s idea is sound,” Éomer began, “if this Siavash turns his forces north at Ancalimon to get through the pass of Tharven, we can easily lay in wait on the plains south of Neledhnín, trapping him between the river, our own forces and Zhubin’s troops further south.”

“If you are going to be fighting with horses, King Éomer,” Maecheneb interjected, tapping their map with a long finger, “you’ll want to let him get within sight of Neledhnín. The Tharven Gorge is wide enough for a road beside the river, but the walls on either side are as steep as those of Emyn Imladrim along the Harnen. You won’t be able to bring their power to bear until he reaches the tri-river hills.”

“They’ll see us coming,” Aragorn objected, but Faramir shook his head.

“Nay, Elessar,” he murmured, sifting through his papers and producing a scout’s report with a flourish that made Aragorn want to smile, remembering Boromir’s face sharing the same expression when one of the Hobbits mastered a move he was teaching; that of a superior feeling proud on behalf of his underling. It brought home how much the brothers did resemble each other, even if Faramir took after their mother more than their father. “The scouts claim that the river curves around a hill; we could lay in wait on the western side, and wait for him to come up the road towards us.”

 “The spring thaw will come to the mountains north of Dor-en-Ernil soon,” Erchirion said, glancing carefully at Aragorn who granted him permission to speak with a light nod, “does the same thing happen here? This tributary looks narrow on our maps, fordable at Neledhnín…”

Nodding to Erchirion, Maecheneb’s face split in a cheeky grin, “Provided we don’t lose this war first,” he added pointedly, “you may yet prove worth knowing…” Amrothos winced slightly, but Erchirion kept himself under tighter control now. Aragorn felt certain they were all missing some sort of underlying compliment in those words, because Maecheneb suddenly appeared much friendlier. “I’ve brought scouts of my own; your north-lads stick out like a sore thumb,” Maecheneb added, “I can get us accurate maps and reports of the terrain within a couple of days if Azarpari agrees to help.”

Aragorn cleared his throat, but it was Faramir who asked the question. “Help how?”

Maecheneb’s grin widened. “Lady Azarpari is known for many deeds, my Lords,” he said, his voice taking on the tone of an experienced storyteller.

“But what you desire is the favour of my feathered friends, Maecheneb, is it not?” A wry voice replied, making all seven of them turn to face the opening of the tent, staring at the tall figure of the blue wizard, her hand loosely wrapped around her staff. Maecheneb grinned.

 

* * *

 

 

Riding along the Harnen road, Anahit felt her grip on the reins crumbling, her control of the situation fading with every decision Siavash made. The steep side of the gorge rose on her right, sandstone carved by millennia worth of water running through the Harnen riverbed, too steep for men or horses to climb except for the wide

When the walls around Ancalimon came into view, she found herself actually wishing to meet opposition, but the guards were exactly as welcoming as Zhubin’s message had promised.

Siavash immediately commanded the best room in Master Calimab’s house, while his troops enjoyed the women on offer for coin, bragging about their non-existent exploits. Anahit had sighed, but she had left Siavash in the care of whatever entertainment he had found for the night, spending her time meeting with a few of the men she had discreetly sent to Gobel Mírlond to find out the truth about Zhubin’s supposed incarceration. None of the spies she had had on his house, had returned to Amrûn, but the second wave of informants had had more luck.

“Captain Maecheneb rode north accompanying Mistress Azarpari,” one twitchy-looking man told her, “supposedly they were riding to Amon Eithel; Maecheneb is apparently looking for his second wife.” When he had finished his report, Anahit threw him a small coin and waved him off, her mind whirling with possibilities.

_Was Zhubin sending his son north as an envoy to the King in Gondor? And what was this news about Azarpari – until the Ancient One resurfaced in Umbar a moon past, general consensus had been that she had left these lands for the West after the downfall of Sauron?_

She hadn’t even heard that Maecheneb had returned from Umbar, which meant that the Captain they called Blackheart must have discovered the man she had planted on his crew to feed her intel. Anahit believed in knowledge as a tool, and knowing the son was as much about Maecheneb’s father as it was about the man himself. Once, she had been offered to Zhubin as part of a deal of Jahangir’s, wanting ships in return for his friendship; the deal had fallen through for reasons she had never been told. Anahit’s guess was that Lady Azarpari might have had a hand in it – her network of whispering tongues claimed Zhubin was one of Azarpari’s hidden friends.

 

In the morning, Anahit was no closer to answers, though her feeling of worry remained, even if Siavash ignored all requests for a meeting. She wondered how she had lost control, but, glancing over her shoulder at the marching companies of men that stretched along the road back to the small village of Tharven where one of the only bridges that crossed the Harnen could be found, she knew that her plans remained unchallenged by Siavash’s sudden need to be in charge.  


	5. Chapter 5

## Chapter 5

The meeting had broken shortly after midday, sending off several of Faramir’s Rangers as well as the boys that had accompanied Maecheneb to scout the terrain ahead. Staying behind for a final word with Faramir, Aragorn was the last to leave his command tent in search of sustenance. Outside, however, he nearly collided with Éomer, who was carrying two bowls of stew. Aragorn liberated one of them, leaning against a convenient boulder that looked like it had once been part of the fortress up the hill; a remnant of one of the times it had been attempted destroyed that no one had cared to remove. When the bowl was half empty, he finally looked up to see why Éomer was so uncharacteristically silent, following his friend’s blue gaze until it landed on their resident wizard.

“I thought I had seen magic, when I saw that Uncle was himself once more,” Éomer said quietly, staring at the tall wizard standing beneath the sunlit sky, her arms outstretched and her head thrown back while a light breeze played with her unbound hair. Aragon felt a droplet of sweat soak into his shirt, wishing that the breeze would extend to their position twenty feet away from Azarpari. “But this is…” Aragorn uncorked his waterskin and took a deep swallow. Passing the skin to Éomer, he nodded.

“I have seen birds flock to the hands of elven maidens, called from trees above by song. I have spoken to some birds myself, who have learned tongues I understand or understand words spoken in Elven tongues… but it was not like this.” _This_ was the result of Maecheneb’s cheeky grin, and theatrical bow, calling Azarpari a mind-reader and other familiar bantering until she laughed; looking like a favoured aunt being teased by a rascally nephew. _This_ was the sight of Azarpari encircled by small swifts, her stance calm as the birds slowly settled on her arms, one flying up her wide sleeve to sit on the bottom hem.

 _‘Hoo-hoo-hoo!’_ A bird called, repeating it several times. The two Kings stared. Across the dry flat ground of the campsite, a red-brown bird ran swiftly, continuing its ‘ _hoo-hoo-hoo!_ ’ as it went. The small swifts took wing in a chorus of offended twittering that made the wizard chuckle. The red-brown bird, its bill long and narrow, looking wickedly sharp, darted past them, the feathery crest on its head raised like a crown as it glanced at the two of them. Butting its head affectionately against Azarpari’s leg, the bird continued its soft calling. Bending, Azarpari ran her fingers along the cooing bird’s crest, _hoo_ -ing back to the little creature as though _she_ was a bird herself.

“It is a hoopoe, King Elessar,” Azarpari said. “More common in temperate climes, though rare in the North where you have travelled, I wager.” Straightening, Azarpari let the hoopoe settle on her forearm with a soft look in her golden eyes. The bird preened, pecking at a couple of loose strands of hair hanging over her shoulder. “They are some of Lord Manwë’s favourites; known to be friends of His servants. In these lands, they are considered a symbol of purity; often given to a powerful man’s heir for protection.”

“They can fight?” Éomer asked, staring at the little thing in confusion. The hoopoe’s crest rose once more, succeeding at looking like it would at least give an attacker fond of his knees a lot of pause when it snapped its beak menacingly at them.

“Spiritual protection, King Éomer,” Azarpair replied, and the hoopoe settled once more in the crook of her arm, rubbing its head affectionately against her before it jumped down, darting off once more. “Hoopoes are known to be friends of mine,” smiling, the wizard followed the bird with her eyes, “though many birds are counted as such.”

“And they will carry messages?” Aragorn asked, once the orange-brown plumage had effectively camouflaged the hoopoe in the distance.

“No,” Azarpari said, “a hoopoe is not quick enough for your purpose, nor is it small enough to avoid detection. The swifts will carry word.”

“They can speak, here?” Éomer asked wonderingly. Azarpari’s eyes glittered with golden amusement but she shook her head.

“Nay, Horse-King,” she said, “but they see much and fly far. They can bring me news and I shall share it with you. If you have urgent need, a swift may carry a message, but they do not have the strength of the Ravens of the North that the Dwarrow use for long-distance news.”

 

 

 

The reason Siavash was so preoccupied with his own status became clear only a day beyond Tharven, to Anahit’s great amusement. She had been summoned to appear, along with the rest of Siavash’ council of war, shortly after the morning meal had been served, her own servants as always bringing the meal to her tent. Looking upon the uncovered face of a eunuch was a great offense, after all, their beauty meant only for the Great Eye, so Anahit only ever ate alone, the only time she was free to remove the esgal that shielded and disguised her distinctive features.

 

“My friends!” Siavash called, gesturing grandly with his hand, the gold rings catching the sun’s first rays with a shimmery glitter. Anahit made a face of distaste behind her veil. The large silk cushions that Siavash had demanded travel with them these past three years drumming up support were laid out on the ground, the scarlet and orange silk faded in spots, proving, to the discerning eye, that their wealth and power were vastly diminished. “I have brought you here to share great and important tidings with you!” Anahit sighed; she had tried, at first, to teach Siavash how to speak to men to make them _want_ to follow him, but her half-brother had always been too self-important to heed the lessons she had learned at Jahangir’s knee. At 12, Siavash had been a spoiled little boy, and now, at nearing 20, he was still a spoiled little boy in a man’s body. “Today, I am taking a wife!” Siavash continued. Anahit nearly staggered on the spot, feeling physically struck by the surprise. Running through recent events in her mind, she cast about for anyone who had been trying to foster relations with Siavash through such methods – she was no stranger to the value of a pretty lady when it came to closing business deals, after all, she thought, mentally sneering at the spectre of Jahangir – but came up empty.

“A wife, Amir Siavash?” she asked, for the first time struggling to maintain the voice she had so carefully crafted for her deception. How had he managed to conceal such a plan; why had she never been consulted?

“Yes, Amir Zerang,” Siavash replied, gesturing to the young woman standing by his tent. “The Jewel of Amrûn, my bride, Atefeh!” Anahit bowed, her mind still reeling, the rest of the council following suit around her. Rising, she studied Atefeh, recognising her as a daughter of a minor merchant they had met in Amrûn, fighting not to laugh at the besotted look on her face. Atefeh was pretty, her nose straight with a small bump, her brows dark as raven wings and perfectly shaped, her mouth painted rose red and her brown eyes lined in deep kohl.

“My felicitations, Lady Atefeh, Amir Zerang,” Anahit murmured, “may she give you many sons and much joy in life.” Siavash looked satisfied with that reaction, and Anahit moved to stand off to the other side of his pillow-throne as the rest of the army’s commanders repeated her good wishes as per tradition. Knowing Siavash, he had already bedded the girl, though the lack of marks visible to Anahit’s keen eyes meant he had restrained himself from indulging in the pleasures he found with women like Mahsa. Jahangir would have punished him for marrying a girl not chosen to aid in their goal, but Anahit couldn’t care less; Siavash would be dead in a few months, and _she_ would be a wealthy woman in Gondor, free to live her life as she wished. Anahit could nearly taste it, the pure sweet taste of freedom that she had first sampled when she left her husband’s corpse to the mercy of the desert sun. _The Jewel of Amrûn_ … once, that had been Anahit herself, the title given to her by a man infinitely more respected than Siavash. As the procession of well-wishers continued, Anahit allowed herself a rare indulgence of memory.

_…She was dancing, watching the satisfaction and pride in Jahangir’s dark face as he watched her. Anahit danced well, better than anyone in her father’s house. The bells tied to her ankle and opposing wrist made no sound lest she desired it, the veils providing tempting glances of her eyes and limbs when she moved._

_Anahit felt pleased; the feeling only grew when she spotted undisguised jealousy on more than a few female faces, knowing she was the most alluring lady in the house. Off to the side she spotted Arezu’s furrowed brows, her mouth twisted in a light sneer; the youngest wife of Jahangir had never liked Anahit, and only grown more bitter when it became clear that young Siavash would be her only child while Arezu’s famous allure slowly faded, her beauty not enough to keep Jahangir’s interest._

_“My daughter,” Jahangir called, gesturing proudly in her direction, “the Jewel of Amrûn.” Anahit bowed. The swarthy man beside Jahangir – by his dress he was a tribal chieftain from Khand – nodded thoughtfully._

_“The beauty of this jewel outshines the tales of her splendour,” he agreed. Jahangir beckoned. Anahit glided across the floor, the golden bells tied with ribbon around her left ankle making no sound now._

_Taking her customary place at his feet, Anahit turned her face towards the newcomer, prepared to help her father charm whatever it was he wanted from this short man. It was her task, as she well knew – Jahangir much preferred sugar to vinegar, and Anahit could be so very sweet when she wanted – lulling the adversary into a false sense of security until Jahangir had extracted whatever promises he required. Of late, it had been men, horses, armour, even mumakil, all in an effort to build an army as the Dark Lord had commanded._

_“This is Amir Bahadur from Sturlurtsa Khand,” Jahangir introduced, “my daughter, Anahit.” Anahit lowered her eyes demurely, holding out her hand to receive the Amir’s greeting. Her eyes snapped up when, instead of her knuckles, he pressed a kiss against the inside of her wrist – a greeting for wives, not strangers – making her bangles ring together._

_“I have heard much of you, Anahit,” he said, his voice smoky, with the distinct lilt of Northern Khand. “The Jewel of Amrûn.” Jahangir chuckled, but Anahit felt a frisson of worry travel up her spine as she noted the covetous way Bahadur’s eyes roamed her form. For once, she wished that dancing costumes offered more protection from the gaze of the audience, but she knew better than to let her distaste show, and simply returned his assessing stare with a bland smile._

_“Amir Bahadur is too kind,” she murmured, lowering her eyes once more, the thick braid of her hair falling over her shoulder._

_Days later, she had been married, throbbing bruises marring her flesh beneath her dress from Jahangir’s fist when she had tried to protest._

_Her husband was insipid and smelled like goat, but she could have lived with that, she thought, if her heart had not been consumed with thoughts of vengeance against the father who had sold her to him like chattel. Bahadur liked to watch her dance of an evening, liked her coy and veiled; a prize for him to unwrap, later._

_When she saw the blood coat her fingers, running crimson into the blue silk of her skirts, Anahit had panicked. Killing him was an accident, at least she thought so, but she knew the men who travelled with them would not believe her._

_For a moment, fear paralysed her, staring at the crimson liquid slowly seeping into the ground beneath Bahadur’s…corpse. Tearing off her blood-soaked skirts, she pulled on a pair of loose trousers, glancing fearfully at the opening of the tent. Outside, men moved about, settling in camp for the night. Glancing between Bahadur and the tent flap, Anahit’s heart raced. She had to do something, had to…_

_The rest of them were dead before Bahadur’s flesh had grown cold, her hands soaked in never-ending streams of blood as she slit throats and stabbed kidneys. Anahit felt nothing, numbness taking over her soul as the stars whirled on above her._

_In the morning, Anahit found herself following the road back towards Amrûn with a vague plan to resume her old life in Jahangir’s house as though nothing had changed._

_Dressed in some of the clothes she had taken from Bahadur’s men and a veil that had been part of a dancing costume once, Anahit continued to walk, having left behind the horses and all the things that had travelled with them without much thought or care. The clothes were meant to disguise her, keep passers-by from realising that she was a woman travelling alone; an unusual occurrence in these lands._

_She met the boy on the road, standing by a small well. She had not even opened her mouth to ask for loan of his cup before he had dropped it, running off in fear, shouting apologies to the heavens for seeing her face._

_The seed of an idea was born. No one would dare attack a eunuch… or someone they thought was a eunuch. Obtaining more fabric was easy enough; in the next village she simply claimed to have been robbed by a stranger to these lands. She didn’t even have to pay for the opaque cloth that covered her head when she left._

_Hearing of Jahangir’s departure only a few days after her own, Anahit decided to go through her old home in peace, gathering up enough valuables to make a life far away from Amrûn, the fog of her first murders lifting enough to make her rational side realise that Jahangir would be unlikely to look favourably upon her behaviour. By law, she should have been turned over to Bahadur’s kin for punishment, and the memory of her father’s temper was enough to make her plans crystallize in a moment of clarity._

_Freedom._

_She would seek freedom, far from the control of any man, find a life of her own choosing, a life that was not filled with fear of a man’s mercurial mind. Anahit would take what she could carry, and she would disappear, perhaps go north; her skin was light enough to pass for Gondorian, at least, mother had always said so, and her eyes were the same startling blue as the summer skies of Rohan where her mother’s kin dwelled._

_“Who are you?” The voice broke in the middle of the short question. Anahit’s shoulders stiffened beneath her esgal costume; she had not expected to be discovered by anyone in the darkest part of night. Turning around, her eyes widened, then zeroed in on the ring on the boy’s left hand. Jahangir’s serpent rings; made for his legitimate children. One had been promised to her, once, and though Anahit knew better than to trust decisions her father made while drunk, the inherent dismissal still stung._

_Want filled her – would it not be the perfect revenge? To take the symbol that should have been hers from this lesser son? – and Anahit bowed slowly._

_“I am Amir Zerang; I was sent to advise you, Amir Siavash,” she said…_

 

Beneath her veils, Anahit smiled.

 

 

 

Maecheneb’s scouts – their reports delivered by excitably twittering swifts and relayed in Azarpari’s soft voice – proved more effective than Faramir’s rangers; the dark-eyed boys were able to disappear in the wilderness between one blink and the next, reminding Aragorn of his own Rangers of the North. Their reports, however, were equally grim: Siavash had indeed reached the Pass at Tharven, but although the main part of his gathered force was moving north, a good number of troops had been left in Ancalimon, which would complicate Zhubin’s proposed pincer manoeuvre.

The upcoming battle would have been more easily won with the aid of Zhubin’s surprise troops, but if they shifted away from the best fighting ground the scouts had found and instead laid themselves in wait around a slightly inferior location, they could trap the enemy between them nonetheless.

“We can still surround them on three sides in an ambush along the river road,” Maecheneb said, tapping the map with a scarred finger. In his mind, Aragorn saw the rise of the hill Maecheneb indicated, described in great detail by the scouts, the long grassy slope falling down from the steep cliff until it reached the road. The tributary that ran between Amon Eithel and met the larger river at the small town named Neledhín wrapped eastwards around its base, turning away from the road that had followed its course since they left the Hyarmentie south of Amon Eithel.

“My Rangers can gain the slope and the west side of the road,” Faramir nodded thoughtfully, tracing the broad band of the river Malduin that ran south from the mountains. “Is it possible to come at them from the east? Across the river?”

“No, Prince Faramir,” Maecheneb replied, tapping the map, “it is not drawn here, but the Malduin has carved a deep bed here; unless you sent forces back to Amon Eithel to cross there, then took the journey across the plains to cross Malduin before it gains the rapid waters at Bar Malduin, continuing south along its eastern bank to take the clifftops on the east bank, there is no crossing bar that at the pass at Tharven.” He looked genuinely annoyed by that fact, as though the making of the land was his doing. Aragorn wanted to chuckle, imagining the same words delivered in Halbarad’s voice; Maecheneb had managed to avoid the inflection that suggested Faramir’s competence was in question – he was not sure his old comrade in arms would have been anywhere near that diplomatic.

“The scouts claim that a force of men without horses can easily lay in wait on the western side of the road. With the hill to the northeast, and footsoldiers holding the road here,” Aragorn pointed out, heading off further discussion, “we could ask for no better ground between here and the Black Serpent.” Catching the eyes of each of them, Aragorn watched as his Captains nodded their assent. “We will need to move swiftly, however,” he added, measuring the distance on the map; a week’s travel at least. “We do not have much time to get there if we want to avoid detection by whatever scouts Siavash has riding ahead of his forces.”

The part of him that would always be Strider thought the bowing of his captains much too deferential to be genuine, but _Elessar_ had learned to accept the show of courtesy and respect graciously. Nodding silently, Aragorn watched each of them file out of the tent, speeding off to give their orders and get the army moving.

 

 

 

As Maecheneb’s scouts and Azarpari’s birds had promised, this stretch of road – not part of the Hyarmentie, simply a flattened roadway along the riverbank – offered the best possible cover for a force lying in wait for one coming from the south. The few outriders that had preceded Siavash’s main force had been quietly dealt with or simply fooled into believing all was well; the men Maecheneb had brought – five in all – who were actual men, not youngsters meant for scouts, had pretended at friendship with some, convincing them that the road was safe while Aragorn’s own soldiers waited around the next bend in the river.

As the army came closer, the outriders were replaced by more experienced soldiers; a few showed obvious signs of having won more than one battle in their lives, and those would not be persuaded by someone who looked like a merchant traveller. Aragorn could not afford to take chances. They had the advantage of surprise, but only so long as Siavash did not grow suspicious.

 

“I don’t like ambushes,” Erchirion said quietly, though without any hints of his earlier animosity.

Aragorn nodded silently, staring patiently down the road, falling back on old habits with the ease of long years of lying in wait. “Nonetheless,” he replied quietly, “it is our best chance of ending this quickly and with the loss of as few lives as possible.” In principle, he agreed that an ambush was a cowardly manoeuvre, but, in reality, he was experienced enough as a general of war to know that a well-constructed ambush would mean the difference between life and death for many men on his side; it was easier when the enemy were Orcs, true, but he could not let sympathy for a fellow Man outweigh his concern for the welfare of his troops. “We must employ whatever tactics may work in our favour.”

Erchirion nodded, looking a little chastised. “I apologise, my King,” he said, “I only meant-”

“I know, Erchirion,” Aragorn smiled, remembering having the exact same conversation once upon a time with Elladan in his position and himself in Erchirion’s shoes. “I don’t like ambushes either.”

 

 

 

The North-King’s attack was bold and came swiftly; Anahit’s first clue that something was amiss was a young soldier toppling off his horse with a croaked gargle of sound as an arrow tore into his neck, his warm blood splashing across the fabric that covered her hands to splatter darkly against the pale grey of her horse.

“Attack! We’re under attack!” Someone cried to her left, but Anahit found herself staring in disbelief at the blood droplets soaking into her silk glove. For a moment that felt eternal, she was frozen; not at the sight of the blood or the eruption of sudden violence – she had been used to that since childhood, had killed men with violence herself and ordered the death of others – no, what made her mind reel was the thought that she _should_ _have known_.

Everything had been too _easy._ She had wondered at the lack of opposition, but she should have been even _more_ suspicious.

Her second thought was a near-hysterical desire to laugh and call out a taunting ‘ _I told you so’_ at Siavash, whose guards were swarming around him, blocking him from her sight.

Rationality reasserted itself quickly; Anahit ducked low over the neck of her mount, her horse close to panicking but settling under her experienced control when she shortened the reins. The suddenness of this assault would force her to abandon some of the loot, she realised, watching dispassionately as another man lost his life, falling from his mount and trampled beneath its hooves, the crimson silk of his shirt darkened by blood.

 

 

“Forth Eorlingas!” Éomer bellowed, holding his sword high as he galloped at the head of his part of the army, hearing Amrothos’ wild cry echo his own call to arms as the younger prince and his Swan Knights joined the charge. Beneath him, Firefoot’s hooves hit the dry ground rhythmically, whirling up clouds of dust. Thundering down the hill, Éomer had the perfect vantage point to see Faramir’s rangers in action, their twanging longbows felling many before his riders got close enough that shooting the Black Serpent’s men became too dangerous for their own side.

 

 

“For Gondor!” Aragorn cried, raising Anduril as the men behind him cheered; he was reminded of the Pelennor, seeing the curved scimitars, the armour that had been adapted for fighting in the desert; most of the riders had fabric hanging from helmets or wrapped around their heads that could be used to shield them from wind or sun.

For a moment, he felt that same boiling rage he had felt seeing Minas Tirith besieged, but he forced it down. This was not a desperate last stand, this was a carefully planned ambush and rage would only cloud his mind.

The first men fell from their mounts, sprouting feathered wounds.

Belatedly, those scimitars were pulled from scabbards and belt hooks, sunlight bouncing off the silvery blades.

In the middle of the Haradrim, he spotted the vividly crimson silk accents and the familiar banner of the Black Serpent; Siavash would be found there.

Aragorn charged.

He vaguely heard the warcries of Éomer’s riders to his left. Today, it was not a continuing roar of ‘Death!’, but an old Rohirric ballad.

Somehow, their laughter was more frightening.

Bows twanged. Horses screamed as their riders fell from their saddles.

It worked perfectly.

 

At the first strike of his blade against flesh and armour, Aragorn’s world narrowed to little more than the next swing or parry. Each hit reverberated in his shoulders, whirling and slashing; long experience taught him to fight for survival, how to move fluidly to avoid the bite of steel. The ground beneath his feet was dusty, warm already despite the early hour of the day; the Sun would not be directly overhead for a few hours yet.

 

 

Anahit’s disguise meant she was permitted no weapons, a fact she had never before cursed, having planned to have plenty of time to get away when they reached the north and the inevitable battle. Now, however, as she pulled the sword from the scabbard of some dead soldier to save her own life, she felt rusty. She had plenty of knives stashed about her person for protection and she had long-since mastered the skill of using them to deadly purposes, but a sword had longer reach and she wore no armour beneath the esgal. Parrying a strike that would have cut off her arm had it landed with the sword in her right hand, Anahit’s left hand snapped out, her wickedly keen dagger ending the straw-headed man’s life.

Survival.

 

 

The horses came down like an avalanche in the mountains, smashing into the enemy from the side as Aragorn’s soldiers stood firm along the road. He had time for little more than a nod in greeting when he spotted Éomer astride his large war-mount, the grey destrier as fierce as his master, using hooves and teeth with destructive force. Faramir’s rangers fired volley after volley in concert with the archers among his own ranks, but then they circled around to trap those trying to flee back towards the south.

The coppery scent of blood mixed with the dry dust, and as the sun rose and the temperature climbed with it, the smell of death became stronger.

 

 

Fighting her way through the throng, Anahit ducked and swerved, stabbing left and right. Abandoning her mount might have been good for her imminent survival, making her a less obvious target, but the horse had also provided some protection.

Beneath her clothes and veils, golden treasures weighted her down, making her move with less grace and ease of motion than usual, limiting her range of attack. Anahit did not let that stop her, fighting to keep herself alive as she moved through the press of soldiers, heading for Siavash’s standard with grim determination.

Even if she did not survive the day, she would have her revenge.

 

 

Pulling his sword back, feeling the give of sinew and muscle against the blade, Aragorn found himself without a new enemy to defeat, leaving him in a moment of confusion as he stared across the field.

The corpses he had hardly noticed before, empty-eyed and lifeless, now appeared like a tapestry of death across the road and the sloping hill, blood-spattered and pale, gruesome wounds blooming like red flowers against the grassy steppe.

Leaning on his sword, Aragorn took a moment to catch his breath, feeling the cuts and bruises he had not managed to avoid entirely begin to complain; most of the shallowed cuts had scabbed over already, though he had taken a slash to the ribs that continued oozing blood every time he moved. Taking inventory of his own well-being, he was unsurprised to feel bruises and scrapes making themselves known; two of the fingers on his left hand seemed broken, but, overall, he felt relatively uninjured. Tilting his head back and accepting a wineskin from his squire, he glanced at the sun and realised that the battle had raged for several hours already.

Around him, battle continued sporadically, but he could already see that they had won the day. The forces of the enemy had been routed, bodies from both sides littering the ground.

Victory was clear, however, and he allowed himself a moment to be grateful for his own survival before beginning to look for those dearest to him.

Seeking out the pale horse tail on Éomer’s helmet, and noting the spatter of blood across the White Tree on Faramir’s chest, Aragorn felt relief that the grief that would surely follow on the heels of today would not require him delivering word to _those_ specific widows.

 

 

Some miles away, a little north of the village Neledhín, Anahit was lying hidden in a dried-up riverbed, covered from view from the banks by the exposed roots of a tree still clinging to existence. She had seen Siavash fall, though she had been too far away to hear his last breath; clinging to the side of her mount she had fled the battle with – hopefully – none the wiser.

Flipping back the fabric that had covered her face in all but the most private of moments, she allowed herself to breathe slowly, listening for any sounds of pursuit, and feeling smug at the undisturbed sounds of birds in the tree above her, light breezes rustling the grass.

She was free.

She had no food, no more gold than she carried – a substantial amount, though far less than she had planned – but she was _free_.

Anahit grinned, feeling laughter bubble up in her chest but forced it back down.

 

 

Once, he had read a poem in Sindarin on the silence after battle, but it was a silence Aragorn had never heard; the aftermath of any battle had always been screams of the dying and wounded, a blood-soaked scramble to save those he cared about.

No, silence came later, walking among the corpses when those who still breathed had been taken away, silence came when it came time to speak to the left behind, _silence_ was the looks on people’s faces when they realised their loved ones would never come home.

He did not like that kind of silence.

Looking over the field, smaller than many he had seen, but larger than he would have liked, Aragorn took a deep breath, preparing himself for the tasks ahead; there were wounded in need of healing, surrenders that had to be accepted, and a million other tasks that needed his attention besides. Wiping Anduril’s blade clean with a tuft of dry grass, he sheathed the sword, drawing the cloak of responsibility around himself once more and taking the first steps towards the tents where the medics were treating those brought in from the fight.

“King Elessar!” Maecheneb called, before Aragorn had managed more than a few steps. Aragorn whirled, halting mid-step to stare. Caught by the scruff of his neck, practically hanging by his clothes from Maecheneb’s grip was a young man, his dark eyes narrowed in anger, a bloody snarl twisting his thin lips. “A gift for you, my King,” Captain Maecheneb called, his wide grin splitting his face to reveal his even teeth in a smile that might have been pleasant if not for its inherent menace. “This one claims to be second in command.” Maecheneb seemed doubtful at the veracity of that claim, and Aragorn silently had to agree that the young man looked too young to be in charge of a company of soldiers, let alone an army.

“What is his name?” he asked, one hand in easy reach of the long dagger at his side; Maecheneb’s grip looked secure, but Aragorn had seen men taken by surprise by a seemingly subdued captive before. The young man spat something obviously uncomplimentary – Aragorn did not need to understand the heavy Khandian dialect he spoke to recognise when he was being cursed at.

“This is Zindak, an officer of horses from Clan Three Rock,” Maecheneb replied tightly; obviously, _he_ understood the stream of invective aimed at Aragorn and was not pleased about it. “It’s a large Clan of nomadic horse-breeders in Khand. He’s not well-versed in Common, but he has enough Umbarian Adunaic to be informative, I reckon.”

“Do you know who I am, Zindak?” Aragorn asked, keeping his attention on the young man though he noticed the Princes of Dol Amroth dismounting not far off; Éomer had drawn straws and he and his men were hunting stragglers.

“ **Bithî 'nki ya-nam bawâb** ,” the young man spat, fighting to get free of Maecheneb’s grip with a ripping of silk cloth. The corsair’s hand had already wrapped around his wrist, however, twisting his arm up behind his back until Zindak was forced to his knees. The dagger he had tried to reach landed at Maecheneb’s feet.

“ **Âru zîrân!** ” Maecheneb hissed in the same language, “ **Bâr anha-zâyan!** ” Kicking the blade away with a dark look, he snarled, tugging the captured wrist a little higher until Zindak was moaning in pain. Aragorn shook his head lightly, making him let up a little; Maecheneb did not look pleased.

“Not _my_ King, **azar-uruk**!” Zindak laughed thickly, spitting a wad of bloody mucus at Aragorn’s feet. “You and your sea-rats may have bent the knee to this north-King, but _we_ are faithful!” Zindak continued mutterering something too low for Aragorn to hear, though the insulting tone was unmistakable.

“And yet these lands you have invaded are part of my dominion,” Aragorn said evenly, pleased that everyone had remained calm so far, though he could feel tension rolling off his friends in waves. It helped, he wagered, that aside from Maecheneb and himself, none of them had studied the languages of the East. Adunaic as they spoke it in Umbar was considered coarse to Gondorian ears, and Haradric nigh incomprehensible. Whatever Khandic dialect Zindak was whimpering in, Aragorn did not understand the words, though he counted it no great loss judging by the look on Maecheneb’s face.

Maecheneb’s hand suddenly left Zindak’s shoulder, only to flash silver in the sunlight as he held a sharp dagger to his captive’s throat. “If you give the order, I will make you a gift of his head, King Elessar,” he offered calmly, but Aragorn heard the simmering anger straining his voice.

Aragorn shook his head slowly. He wanted information; seeing the young man before him – little more than a boy – Aragorn felt certain that they had not, in fact, caught one of the true leaders of the rebellion. “Who was your leader?” he asked. Zindak spat a few further insults in Khandic – an even more guttural desert relation of Adunaic. Aragorn looked to Maecheneb, whose face expressed nothing but disgust. “Everything we heard before Ancalimon pointed towards ‘Amir Zerang’, not Siavash as the brains behind the war,” Aragorn said. “Show me his face.”

“Not a he,” Zindak replied disdainfully, wincing when Maecheneb twisted his arm a little harder for his tone. Aragorn waved him to stop. “Zerang is eunuch, not ‘he’, not ‘man’. Advisor. From Amir Jahangir. No face.”

“That’s true,” Maecheneb shrugged, loosening his grip, “eunuchs are always called they or by name – traditionally they’re not thought to have a gender – and to look upon the face of a true eunuch is… very unlucky, my King.” Zindak nodded emphatically.

“Face of eunuch,” he said, frowning as he thought of the words in Common, “only for Dark Lord Eye. No mortals. Beauty.”

“You may wish to give him to the Ancient One. He seems unwilling to say anything of real value,” Maecheneb said thoughtfully, adding a liquid yet guttural phrase towards the young man that made him pale and fall into abrupt silence. He stared at Aragorn, nearly fearful.

“To Lady Azarpari?” Aragorn asked, feeling a light shiver of apprehension travel the length of his spine when Maecheneb’s smile took on a distinct look of menacing delight.

“Well, he may know more than he lets on… and the desert Khandis tend to be less than cooperative when interrogated by coast-landers; he’ll know that I am Umbarian by my speech and dress. Your own men would have even less luck; I’ve seen none among them who could pass for Haruze let alone Pezarsian or Khandic. Rómestámo will get you truth.” Pulling the young man back to his feet, Maecheneb kept a firm grip on his wrists, though he hardly had to; Zindak looked meek and defeated now.

For a moment, Aragorn wondered what the corsair had told him, but his musings were interrupted by the surprisingly silent appearance of Abbas.

Running his thumb down the blade of the curved sword hanging from his belt, the darkhaired Dwarf studied the captive. Maecheneb murmured something, making Abbas nod, a peculiar look on his face that Aragorn would have called pity. “The Mistress is with the wounded,” he informed, a smear of blood along one cheek and a few spatters on his armour the only obvious signs he had been involved in the fighting at all.

Aragorn caught Faramir’s eye and shrugged; if the Wizard could give him answers, it was worth a try – finding either Siavash or the mysterious Amir Zerang was their first priority. Ensuring that neither of them would plot another invasion – considering that Aragorn was not actually the ruler of the place they seemingly called home, he could hardly call it a rebellion – was the second. Either way, Aragorn needed more information.

 

They entered the healing tent just as Azarpari closed the eyes of the soldier on the cot before her, murmuring a prayer in Quenya that Aragorn had not heard since he was very young and being schooled by Erestor on the customs of Valinor and the Exiles.

Abbas, who had been leading the way, cleared his throat gruffly, moving to stand behind her left shoulder when Azarpari looked up to see Aragorn in the doorway. He had sent Maecheneb and his prisoner off to his own tent, but Faramir had joined him, his curiosity never dormant for long; Wizards had always been one of his favourite topics of study as a boy, he had once told Aragorn, and he did not begrudge his Captain a chance to learn something new first-hand.

“Maecheneb claims you have a way of gaining information from a reluctant captive,” Aragorn began. Over the week they had travelled together, he had realised that this Wizard was just as enigmatic as Gandalf in some ways, but also refreshingly direct; she preferred when people got to the point of whatever they were saying.

Azarpari sighed, giving him an indecipherable look. “As you wish, King Elessar,” she nodded, gently placing the dead soldier’s hand on his chest and getting to her feet, following them out of the tent.

 

Blinking at the change from bright afternoon sunlight to the comparable darkness of his command tent, Aragorn nearly missed the grimace that crossed Zindak’s face at the sight of the blue-robed woman.

“This is the one?” she asked, coming to a stop before the young man, whose hands were bound in front of him, his ankles tied to a pair of tent hooks hammered into the dirt where he sat on the chair that normally belonged to Faramir’s desk. Captain Maecheneb, his green eyes glittering towards them, nodded silently. “You wish to know where his leader is?” she wondered, tilting her head to study Aragorn.

He nodded tightly. He still felt wary of the Wizard, even after several weeks of companionable travel. There was something about her, glimpses of strangeness that unnerved him far more than Gandalf had ever managed – Grey or White. She was somehow less opaque in her role as an old woman – though Gandalf could pass for an old man, he too had had something undefinable _other_ about him, but he managed to hide it; Azarpari did not seem to care about being discovered as a Wizard before the time of her choosing.

Azarpari sighed. Turning her attention to the young man, she asked him a calm question, using his own tongue. Zindak nodded at first, then shook his head wildly. Azarpari smiled. If he had not known better, Aragorn would have called it maternal. Her yellow eyes seemed to take on a golden glow in the dim light; Aragorn had a strange feeling of déjà vu, reminded of looking into Galadriel’s blue eyes and seeing the same indefinable sense of ancient light reflected. He wondered if she was speaking into his mind as well. The old lady spoke a single phrase, still using the desert tongue, and Aragorn wondered if she was plucking the answers to his questions from the man’s mind.

He did not have to wait long for an answer.

At first, Zindak grimaced, reluctance writ in every feature, but then he opened his mouth and began speaking. He continued to use his own tongue, seeming in some distress at what he was saying, even though he did not look to be in pain. Aragorn wished now that he _did_ understand the words that spilled endlessly from Zindak’s lips.

 

The Sun had fallen beneath the horizon by the time Azarpari closed her eyes, looking slightly… off. Aragorn stared. Zindak’s cheeks were wet, and he looked like he might continue weeping if not for his own wounded pride; Aragorn had been surprised when he broke down after a quarter hour of babbling, but Azarpari had not moved a muscle and he had been loath to interrupt, hardly even daring to breathe for fear of breaking whatever spell had taken hold.

Éomer had entered the tent just before Zindak finished spilling his guts, but Aragorn had motioned him to silence, and the grim-looking King of Rohan had taken up position along one of the tent-walls, studying the scene intently, his lips pressed together, but his face giving away no other reaction as he watched the magic unfold.

 

Maecheneb put his hand on the young man’s shoulder. He said something, softly, and when Zindak nodded, he bent to undo the knots tying him to the hooks. Zindak slumped in his seat, all resemblance to the angry and spiteful young man Aragorn had met on the plains melted away, like snow in the first days of spring.

Abbas, stirring for the first time since he took up his post, silently handed Azarpari a cup of wine. She smiled at him, small but grateful, Aragorn thought, and, for the first time, he wondered what toll such powers took on the wielder; Galadriel had made mental magic seem effortless, osanwé as easy as speaking, but somehow this was a different thing.

“The man Siavash is dead; Zindak does not know precisely what happened, but he was killed amid all his guards. You will find his corpse beneath the Black Serpent banner. Those who have fled will call him a false pretender to glory; no one will believe that the Son of Sauron shall rise once more.” Sipping at her wine, she continued to study the young man. Murmuring something that sounded soothing, she raised the cup to his lips, tipping it gently.

“And Amir Zerang?” Aragorn asked, not quite certain how he was meant to react to this display of magic. It was both like and unlike the mind-speak practiced among some of the Eldar; Galadriel’s conversations with the Fellowship coming close but still falling short of what they had just witnessed.

“Of Amir Zerang, Zindak knows little; if they are dead, theirs will be the only corpse wearing an esgal – it is a large piece of opaque fabric meant to veil the person head to toe; Maecheneb will recognise it even if you have not seen a traditionally garbed eunuch in your travels.” Azarpari sighed, putting the cup back on the table. “If they are not dead, it falls to you to discover them; we are far enough north that asking local villages for sightings should be worthwhile – Sauron’s reach was never quite as strong in Harondor as it was further south and east.” She pursed her lips slightly, her attention focused inwards. “You will be looking for someone about this tall,” she held up her hand; Zerang was slightly shorter than Aragorn, “and slender. If they are as clever as we have been told – and Zindak believes they are that clever… and more than a little ruthless – they will have removed the esgal; in which case identifying them will be near impossible.”

“So we have learned nothing useful.” Aragorn sighed, running a hand through his sweat-tangled hair and longing for a wash.

“On the contrary, King Elessar,” Azarpari snapped, a gust of wind making the tent flap snap back on itself, “we have learned a great deal. We have learned that while Siavash was little more than a self-important figurehead, he was followed because he embodied a thing far greater than himself; a legacy stretching back thousands of years. Imagine, if you will, what such power might have accomplished if it had been turned away from this cause. Whoever this Amir Zerang turns out to be, I should very much like to meet the mind that orchestrated this endeavour. Together, they spent _years_ planning to act against you, while keeping their intentions from reaching the ears of your network of spies in Gondor!”

Aragorn wasn’t quite sure he liked the tone of her voice as she said those words; it sounded almost like Azarpari admired this Amir Zerang, which sent a chill racing up his spine.

“We’ve found no corpse with such clothing,” Éomer reported briskly, “but I’ve a few riders out yet looking for stragglers; this Amir Zerang may yet be found.”

“The sun is setting,” Azarpari said quietly, staring out of the tent, “if they have not been found yet, I doubt you will.”

“I’ll send out more scouts,” Aragorn said tiredly, picking at flecks of dried blood under his fingernails. The wizard turned her head, nodding regally.

“When you are ready,” Azarpari said quietly, “I shall tell you what you wish to know of Zindak’s Truth – until then, I shall be with the wounded.”

The flap of the tent fell shut behind her, a whisper of heavy fabric that cut off the light of the setting sun. Silence fell, but it was the comfortable silence of close friends.

 

The cup of wine Faramir thrust into his hand broke Aragorn’s reverie; he turned to smile at his Captain, raising the cup slowly. “To victory,” he offered. The two men nodded solemnly, raising their own cups and repeating the toast.

“To the Glorious Dead,” Éomer added.

“To Peace. Long may it last,” Faramir said quietly. They drank silently.

“For now, you have earned a wash and something to eat, my friends,” Aragorn said, setting down his empty cup. “The day has been long and difficult. We will reconvene on the morrow to strategize.”

It was a request, but Aragorn was well aware that everyone would hear the implied ‘get some rest’ order that laced the words. Éomer’s wry glance told him that his friend was fully aware that the words might just as easily be considered ‘get lost’, but he clapped Faramir on the shoulder and struck up a conversation as they ducked through the tent flap.

Aragorn shook his head, smiling softly to himself. He felt grateful for the friends he had, brothers in arms; brothers in all but blood, in truth, he thought, beginning to unbuckle the straps of his armour.

 

 

Neledhín was bigger than she had expected, but Anahit didn’t mind that; she had no trouble procuring a horse – she wouldn’t be surprised if the inhabitants of Neledhín went hunting for the mounts that had bolted away from the battle, so she felt no shame for haggling the merchant down harshly.

Feeling the setting sun on her face, the breeze blowing her hair out to stream behind her as she rode north along the Eithel road, Anahit’s joy escaped her at last, her clear laughter startling a bird out of one of he bushes along the road.

She continued onwards for quite a few hours, until the darkness and her own fatigue forced her to make camp; she wanted to keep ahead of the North-King’s returning army, if she could, but, if they overtook her, she could claim to have come from Neledhín.

Feeling safe for the first time in longer than she cared to consider, Anahit slept deeply, the blood bay hobbled and grazing quietly beside her small camp. It was warm enough to sleep without the protection of her tent, and Anahit revelled in the sudden difference that losing her long heavy veils provided.

 


	6. Chapter 6

## Chapter 6

They had found no trace of the eunuch beyond the battlefield, but no corpse wearing the recognisable clothing that Zindak had described either. The body of Siavash, still distinguishable with its bright orange silk garments and more golden bangles – Aragorn recognised coins bearing the mark of Arnor among other beads and jewels – than seemed plausible. His face – too young, Aragorn thought – seemed frozen in something approaching surprise, a finely crafted dagger with a jewelled haft still protruding from between his ribs. The weapon looked to have come from his own belt, which only added to the furious speculations among the men. Some had theorised that it was the missing advisor who had seen their opportunity to do away with the one person likely to be able to identify them, while others believed the death a final act of compassion from a guard knowing the battle was lost already; dying in battle was – much like the Rohirrim – an honourable death, sure to win favour with the ancestors waiting beyond the circles of the world. Aragorn did not know what to believe, but Siavash had been identified by several captives, and he had no doubt that this young man was the Black Serpent – no matter how odd it seemed to think a man so young could have gathered such support, even in the years since the Ring War.

 

 

While most of the army had turned north after the battle of Neledhín, Aragorn’s own company, as well as Maecheneb’s men – and a few captives – had continued south along the river, intending to meet with Lord Zhubin in Gobel Mírlond. Éomer’s riders had begun the long journey back to Rohan – most of them would be needed for the summer’s work, there were farms to tend and the herds of horses had still not recovered from the wholesale slaughter of Saruman’s orcs. Instead, it had been agreed that the two Kings would meet and celebrate their victory at Midwinter in Edoras as part of the Yule Feasts.

 

The scouts native to Harondor and further south – Aragorn did not think they were aware of just how much of their tongue he truly understood – had wondered if Siavash’s head would end its days on a pike, carried like a grisly banner as Aragorn’s party continued down the road, but the corpse had been left undefiled, burned on a pyre along with the rest of the Southrons.

The Gondorian dead had been burned on a different pyre, some of the ashes collected to be carried back to Minas Tirith and poured into the statue that would commemorate their victory. Their names would be inscribed in the annals of the Realm, as had been the case for thousands of years for soldiers who gave their life in service of the King.

 

Some of the captives had been taken along south, but most of them would be brought north, facing the King’s Justice in Minas Tirith.

Zindak, who had been left unbound, though he was still considered a prisoner, was now riding a horse once belonging to one of Maecheneb’s young men, still looking defeated and introspective. He had spoken little; one of the other Umbarians shared his tongue, but mostly he was silent, focusing on the animal beneath him and the road they were travelling.

“He is a strange sight, is he not?” Faramir asked at the midday stop, following Aragorn’s gaze across the milling men and mounts. They were watering the horses; the soldiers had lamented the lack of the Númenorian water posts along the river road, but Maecheneb had laughed and sent a few of his scouts scurrying down the steep embankment to bring up buckets for the animals. “Like she took the fire from him.”

“Knowing who you are, Prince Faramir, can be a great strength,” Azarpari’s soft voice replied, making Faramir startle at her silent approach. “Being forced to know – and acknowledge – all that you are, however, is no easy thing. Young Zindak will spend much time reflecting, I am sure.” Her tone was mild, but both men felt rebuked somehow, as though their thoughts had been unkind.

“Will he be returning home, Lady Azarpari?” Aragorn asked, trying to shake the feeling.

“No, I believe Maecheneb offered him a place in his service; the Clan he comes from are no lovers of you or yours, King Elessar, his kin among those who supported the rule of the Black Serpent. Zindak, albeit by my interference, helped you; Maecheneb does not believe they will look kindly upon his return, and I agree.” A sliver of guilt wormed its way into his soul; even though Aragorn did not truly consider himself to blame for the misfortune of a man who had decided to become an insurgent, he still felt somewhat responsible. Azarpari’s eyes glittered, softening slightly, as though she could see the thought take shape in his mind. “One day, Zindak may even thank you for sparing his neck,” her lips twitched, a touch of humour flashing across her face, “his life will be much different than what he had planned, but it _will_ be a life. If the Sea is not for him, Zhubin will find him something do to in Gobel Mírlond.”

Gazing across the throng of men and horses, their voices loud and joyous, Aragorn found Maecheneb easily. The scarlet sash was a bright splash of colour among the grey and black armour of his own men, to say nothing of the rather flamboyant silk-embroidered linen shirt he had donned for the journey home, and as he watched him in deep discussion with Erchirion, Aragorn wondered what the court of Minas Tirith would make of this colourful presence. Maecheneb had offered to sail them home, which meant they should be able to make it in good time before the midsummer celebrations. Aragorn fully intended to invite both the governor and his son to the celebrations that would take place in Minas Tirith. The thought made him smile. Arwen would be delighted – and amused, as she often was, by the inevitable posturing among their nobles – and Aragorn could almost see the smile on her face already.

His plans were not solely for the benefit of the Court, however. In the back of his mind, Strider still expected traps, urging wariness when accepting kindness and looking for anything suspicious. Zhubin’s behaviour – while helpful – was ultimately suspicious. He wondered if the corsair truly was as loyal as he presented; Zhubin had been raiding the coast of Gondor most of his life, even if he had also lived the life of a merchant sailor, and made more than a name for himself as a canny Corsair Lord.

“We owe Lord Zhubin a debt,” he said, “as we do you, Lady Azarpari, for the aid you have given us.” No matter their motivations, he was still grateful for the lives that had been spared due their new allies.

“Zhubin knows the value of loyalty and honour, King Elessar,” she replied, turning to follow his eyes, a soft smile on her face as she watched Maecheneb gesticulate wildly, making Amrothos laugh. “As does his son.”

Once again, Aragorn wondered if his thoughts were plainly visible to her, checking the shields around his mind as Elrond had taught him and finding them flawless as always. Azarpari did not react, continuing to look at Maecheneb with the Princes of Dol Amroth, who seemed to have found some sort of friendship that made Aragorn hope that his suspicions would prove unfounded.

“Zhubin swore you his loyalty as his liegelord; Maecheneb’s fealty is given to his father, and thus falls to you as well. Umbarians take questions of rank and obedience very seriously. As the Head of his family, Zhubin’s fealty once given is considered given for his descendants as well, unless they are sworn to another.” Her eyes, more golden than yellow in that moment, seemed to sparkle with the light of the Sun above them. Aragorn nodded thoughtfully, reminded of his own journeys among the peoples of the South years before; their ways were unlike the rigid structure of Gondor, but they had honour and pride in their given words to match any other people he had known. “As for myself,” Azarpari continued, accepting the reins of her horse from Abbas with a nod of thanks, “I require no payment.” Aragorn still felt unsettled by her _otherness_ ; somehow Gandalf had not felt like that – though that might be because he had first known him as Elrond’s guest, the wandering storyteller. The Blue Wizard patted the pale neck of her mount gently, her voice calm but with a hard edge that Aragorn thought he would have feared if he had been Siavash. “Battling the Darkness in the East was my charge and I could no more leave this ‘Son of Sauron’ unexplored than you yourself could leave a threat on your borders.”

“Still, you have my thanks.” He might not trust her motives, but she had done them a service that should not be forgotten. Gratitude – even a King ought to feel gratitude, he thought, not simply expect obeisance and loyalty blindly – was the least he could offer.

Azarpari chuckled, her golden eyes sparkling brilliantly in the midday sun as she turned her gaze back to him. Mounting her fine steed with a fluid grace that gave away the lie of her wrinkled skin, she nodded at each of them, turning the horse around swiftly.

“Then I charge you to do one thing for me, King Elessar, if it please you.” Tilting her head, those unsettling eyes seeing far too much, Azarpari settled more firmly in her saddle.

Aragorn nodded.

“Remember that the East is vast,” she said, sweeping her arm out in an expansive gesture of inclusion, “and its people have suffered much darkness and fear.” When Aragorn nodded once more, she smiled, something like pride flashing across her face. “You have already passed into legend in these lands; the grim barbarian king who defeated the Dark Lord and called an army of the Dead to march before him… Take care your story does not grow too dark as you set to work creating a better future for your people.”

Aragorn managed to keep a straight face, but Faramir had to stifle a reaction to being called barbaric. Azarpari’s glittering eyes did not miss it, but she said no more, giving each of them another nod, and turned to take her place in the group of riders, speaking to Abbas in a low voice that did not carry.

“She is…” Faramir trailed off, shaking his head. A small smile played around his lips, “A lot like I believed wizards to be when I was a boy. More than Mithrandir, at least.” Aragorn laughed.

“At least she does not speak in quite so many riddles, my friend,” he chuckled, clapping Faramir on the shoulder and heading back to his own horse. Behind him, the Prince of Ithilien laughed quietly.

 

* * *

 

 

“Father will want to welcome you properly to Gobel Mírlond,” Maecheneb warned quietly, joining Aragorn’s small party for dinner. “The King must be seen, after all.”

Aragorn carefully did not wince, still not used to remaining visible rather than going unseen as he had done before he took up the crown; sometimes he wondered if he would ever feel comfortable being under such constant scrutiny and quietly dreaded that the answer would always be a resounding ‘No’.

“We did not bring much in way of finery,” Amrothos replied, a cheeky smile playing around his lips, “though I’m sure we can find ways to charm the good people of Gobel Mírlond nonetheless.” Amrothos had always been the most popular among Imrahil’s sons; Elphir, while the eldest and his father’s Heir, was also in love with his wife to the point of barely registering the presence of any other women, and Erchirion always seemed awkward in the presence of noble ladies, preferring horses and sparring with the Swan Knights, but Amrothos usually had a gaggle of giggling ladies vying for his attention.

“You and your train of admiring ladies,” Erchirion sighed. Aragorn stifled his laugh – Amrothos’ wounded look was entirely ineffective – but Faramir chuckled.

“I think at least one Lady in Gobel Mírlond will be glad to see you,” Maecheneb said, a soft look crossing his face, “both of you.”

“Calithilien is in Gobel Mírlond?” Erchirion asked, longing evident in his voice. The three men had made peace with each other during their journeys, but Aragorn knew that neither Prince would be satisfied with reports on their friend’s well-being if there was a chance they could see for themselves; he had decided against sending them back to Gondor with the main armies for that exact reason.

“We discovered several spies among my father’s men; one on the ship I personally captain, before I left,” Maecheneb replied, frowning darkly. “I would not leave my wife without all the protection I could provide her, and father’s house is in many ways safer than an obviously Gondorian woman in Umbar. When I went north, I sent one of my most trusted lieutenants to close the house in Umbar and travel to Gobel Mírlond with Callie.” His smile was not a pleasant thing as he continued, “A Corsair learns to protect his dependants quickly; rising in the ranks of piracy is a risky game, and the blood of innocents has been spilled more than once.” Something dark flashed across his face then; the tone of his voice left little doubt as to how this otherwise companionable man could have earned himself a name like Blackheart, but it vanished in the next moment. “I expect I shall be in for a tongue-lashing, however,” Maecheneb grinned, not looking particularly worried about the prospect. “Though your presence may buy me a measure of forgiveness,” he added shrewdly, winking at Erchirion, who raised an eloquent dark eyebrow in return. The corsair’s green eyes glittered with mirth. “As you may know,” he began, “it is customary among the Men of Umbar and the Haradwaith to take more than one wife, if one is a man of means. It would be like my father to put about the story of my being off to look at such a potential second bride to conceal the facts of my journey… he joked about it before I left.”

Erchirion just spluttered something unintelligible, though Amrothos seemed almost intrigued by the practise. Aragorn had never understood how it worked; he could not imagine loving anyone as he did Arwen, and marrying another woman had never even crossed his mind.

“Not all men marry for love, Erchirion,” Maecheneb continued sagely – Aragorn wondered when the three had become close enough to drop the titles, but perhaps it would turn out to be a good thing, fostering ties of friendship across the Reunited Kingdoms, “and many of our men take to the sea for months at a time; having another adult around the house who is not a servant can be a great help in managing business affairs.” He did not say it, though everyone around the fire was surely thinking it, but some men simply liked having several wives – further inland, women were still possessions of their fathers, often sold for alliances or other advantages. Truthfully, those kinds of brokered marriage deals were not uncommon in Gondor, either, even if several wives to one man seemed unaccountably barbaric.

 

* * *

 

 

 

Zhubin was precisely as expansive in his welcome as Aragorn had quietly dreaded ever since Maecheneb’s warning. Continuing south, taking the time to visit a few of the cities along the Harnen – travelling these lands as Thorongil had mostly taken him to the coastal lands and further south to Umbar – allowed him to see for himself the results of the Ring War on this province.

The loud voice that greeted them about an hour’s ride from the city gates was not entirely surprising –the King visiting Gobel Mírlond for the first time was bound to be a grand event – though he had not expected to find a whole camp set up by the banks of the river; cooks hard at work beneath scarlet and green silk awnings and a tent that looked more lavish than practical.

“My King!” Zhubin boomed, standing broad and tall in the middle of the road, his arms outstretched in welcome, “Harendor greets you, King Elessar.” He bowed.

“Lord Zhubin,” Aragorn replied, nodding when Zhubin straightened. “It is good to see you well.”

“And you, my King,” Zhubin’s honest smile split his face, genuine in its welcome. Aragorn felt himself relaxing slightly. Most of the Harondian subjects they had encountered on the road had been wary; unsure what to make of the King of the Reunited Kingdoms of the North. As Azarpari had warned him once, it would take a long time for the people of the South to overcome centuries of terrifying tales of the Men of the North. “I have taken it upon myself to arrange some refreshments – surely you are thirsty from your ride – as well as a little rest before we enter the city.” Zhubin gestured towards the colourful tents and awnings – the enticing scents emanating from a couple of cookfires enough to make Aragorn’s stomach rumble.

“A rest would be most welcome,” Aragorn agreed, well-aware that there was probably more than one reason Zhubin had decided to meet them on the road rather than at the city gate. Swinging himself down from his horse, he shared a glance with Faramir, who followed suit swiftly.

 

“Of course, our beloved Azarpari has shared news of your decisive victory with us,” Zhubin began, his voice dropping in volume as he led the way into the tent. “But I wished to see for myself how you fared.”

“Those who are here are well, Lord Zhubin,” Aragorn replied. Zhubin nodded calmly.

“I’ve a healer or two along, just in case. My wife is frightfully practical, at times, King Elessar,” he grinned, for a moment resembling his son to a startling degree, “and she pointed out what I had not considered.” And so they had arrived at the true reason for Zhubin’s appearance, Aragorn thought, amused.

“Which is?” Faramir prompted, though he was certainly shrewd enough to realise why the tent contained a large tub of gently steaming water, as well as several groaning platters of food.

“It is paramount,” Zhubin replied, both of them secretly enjoying the theatre, Aragorn felt, in ways he had never – being raised by Elves and living in the wilderness for much of his life – cared for. For the first time, he wondered whether Zhubin had noble blood somewhere; this kind of speaking around topics was something his own court delighted in, too. “ _Paramount_ , that the King looks like a King when he enters Gobel Mírlond. Many eyes will be watching, carrying tales to far-off places.” Aragorn nodded slowly; reminded of Azarpari’s warning about his legend. Looking like a conqueror would not win the hearts of these people, nor their allegiance. “For this reason, we have schemed a little with your Prince Imrahil in Dol Amroth, who has kindly sent along some of your clothes.” Faramir chuckled.

“Uncle Imrahil was always canny,” he remarked, picking up a date and popping it in his mouth with relish.

“Thank you, Lord Zhubin,” Aragorn said, nodding, “this was thoughtful, indeed. Tell the men we will leave in an hour or so.” That would put them in Gobel Mírlond just before sunset, Aragorn thought, in time to parade through the city while it was still light, and ensure that Zhubin’s preparations did not go to waste.

“I shall leave you to your bath, my King.” Bowing, Zhubin turned to duck out of the tent.

“Lord Zhubin,” Aragorn called, making him stop dead and turn back to face them once more. “I thank you for your assistance; your son was a most valuable ally.” Zhubin smiled proudly, nodding once and leaving the tent with a small bow.

Attacking the delicious fruit, cut into bite-sized pieces, Aragorn divested himself of his armour. Faramir hummed softly as he ate.

“Maecheneb did warn me that this would be a spectacle,” Aragorn sighed, looking at the ensemble that was clearly intended for him, but the temptation of proper cleanliness and clothes that were neither armour nor scratchy with the dust of the plains soon won him over. Zhubin did have a point; currently, the Lord of Gobel Mírlond looked more noble than his King, which would not send the right message, he knew, even if the part of him that had been content with wearing the name Strider already felt wearied by the imminent spectacle.

“Zhubin has a point,” Faramir said, “and you’ve obviously been spared the worst of Gondorian fashion.”

Aragorn nodded; he had seen some of the getups that the most pompous – and often least useful – nobles of his court favoured, and silently prayed never to arrive at a day where he felt such clothes were worth owning. His wardrobe, while filled with fine quality fabrics, was eminently practical; even though Imrahil’s advice had swayed him away from his customary dark colours and sturdy materials, the Ranger would never quite abandon the King.

For Faramir himself, there was a fresh tunic sewn with the White Tree, and a soft linen shirt, while Aragorn had merited a finely embroidered shirt with a border of silver trees around the high collar – he recognised Arwen’s hand in the stitches with a wave of longing – and a tunic made with dark silk and more silver embroidery. The clothes were rich enough for a king and a prince of the Realm, though not overly so. He’d still be wearing his mail shirt, of course, and the true crown had not been included, merely a finely wrought silver circlet that reminded him of the sort Elrond would wear.

It felt right to slip the garments over his head, even though he’d have to wear his usual boots, brushed and polished for the occasion but sturdy and practical, a small dagger hidden in inside pockets along each calf.

 

* * *

 

 

Riding into Gobel Mírlond was almost as overwhelming as the first time he had entered Minas Tirith, even though these people did not look to him for salvation from darkness, but rather with a wary expectancy, as though they did not quite know what to make of him yet. He was not much like the Haruze lord who had held the city before the War, nor was he much like Zhubin, who garnered more than one coy wave from the women and respectful nods from the men.

Riding in front of the column of soldiers – everyone had been assigned places based on rank – Aragorn felt the eyes of hundreds upon him, aware of every breath he took, every move he made.

 

After his speech, made on the steps of the Governor’s Manor to a crowd that was, if not adoring, then not hostile, either; a few even cautiously welcoming, Aragorn felt slightly relieved to escape to the cool interior of the house.

“Welcome to Gobel Mírlond, my King,” a gentle voice greeted, belonging to a woman wearing a fine scarlet silk gown, her wrists adorned with golden bangles and her black hair contained by a net of pearls. Dipping into a deep curtsey, she continued, “Welcome to our house.”

“Thank you, Lady Glingaeril,” Aragorn replied, “I hope we find you well.” Glingaeril smiled, taking the arm Zhubin offered her with every sign of acceptance; Aragorn felt silently relieved that the former handmaiden of Arwen’s was visibly happy in her new role.

Behind the lady of the house, the rest of the household was lined up along the long hallway. One of the servants moved silently, offering refreshments. Opening her mouth, Lady Glingaeril prepared to begin the list of introductions; Aragorn scanned across the assembly, catching Maecheneb doing the same with a frown on his face, but no woman matching the descriptions he had heard of Lady Cailithilien stood among them.

“Daddy!” A small girl, no more than four years of age, fearlessly darted between their legs, interrupting Glingaeril before she could begin her introductions. Someone in the crowd chuckled.

“Why, it’s Princess Moonbeam!” Maecheneb replied, laughing as he swung her high. “Did you miss me?”

The little girl nodded, wrapping her arms around his neck and planting a wet-sounding kiss on his stubbled cheek. Aragorn smiled at the sight, while Erchirion seemed to be struck dumb, staring at the child. “Did you bring me a present, Daddy?” she asked, leaning in conspiratorially.

“Well, of course, I did, darling,” Maecheneb replied, “though you may have to share some with your mother.”

“Is it candy?” she wondered, smiling widely before suddenly seeming to notice the rest of them, her mouth falling audibly shut as she stared around the group of men. “Who’s they, Daddy?”

“My name is Elessar,” Aragorn said quietly, “I am the King. What’s your name?” Large grey eyes widened further, a small frown on her face as she stared at him.

“Oh.” Hiding her face in Maecheneb’s shoulder, the girl did not reply.

“My daughter, Nîlophel,” Maecheneb replied, stroking her small back slowly. “Where is your mother, my darling?”

“Resting,” Glingaeril replied, “and I should go to her at once, if I were you.” Throwing a sharp glance at her husband, who looked slightly guilty, Glingaeril turned back to her task, introducing the ladies of the house. Maecheneb nodded silently, disappearing through a doorway; his face distinctly unhappy. Little Nîlophel waved at them over his shoulder, but shyly ducked back down when Erchirion lifted his hand to wave back, still looking slightly stunned to see her.

 

* * *

 

 

Pelargir was bigger than she had expected, but familiar like port cities often are; Anahit quickly found a place to lodge for a few nights, trying to decide what she wanted to do with her life. She had money, yes, but that would only get her so far in this place where she was without a name. Drifting through the marketplaces, she quietly diverted more than one would-be thief from trying her pockets, buying herself a pretty dress from one of the shops.

It was important to look the part, Jahangir had once told her. To inspire confidence, one had to exude confidence. The dress was modest, though not too modest; she was young, yet, and though she had already decided to take up the role of a wealthy young widow, she was quite tired of hiding her looks, feeling a sense of satisfaction at the appreciative looks she garnered when she went out to find herself some supper.

She would make her way to Minas Tirith, find a suitable – undemanding, but preferably well-connected – husband, and set herself up as a trader. She had an eye for silk, and knew more than most about how to get the precious fabric from Harad to Gondor, after all. She had considered becoming a nobleman’s wife, at first, but that would invite scrutiny she would rather avoid – her story would not hold up against more than the most basic questions, and nobles were far too nosy for her own good, in Anahit’s opinion.

Smiling to herself, Anahit settled in to enjoy her supper, even though the flavours were much milder than she was used to. Perhaps she would pick up a side business in spices, she thought, sending a flirty smile at the man sitting in the corner.

 

* * *

 

Dinner was scrumptious; a collection of seafood that Aragorn recognised from meals in Dol Amroth, but also dishes that were entirely new. The two Princes of Dol Amroth seemed to enjoy the flavours immensely, though Aragorn had to admit that some of the sauces were much too spicy for his palate; their hosts did not seem to mind. Only the main household had been invited to this dinner – a more formal occasion had been planned for the night following – so their company consisted of Zhubin, Lady Glingaeril, Aragorn himself, with Faramir beside him and the two brothers at either end of the table, two empty seats presumably intended for Maecheneb and his wife. Azarpari had disappeared somewhere, Abbas trailing along in her shadow, but neither Zhubin nor Glingaeril seemed to find that odd, so Aragorn did not remark on it either. Maecheneb had not returned from seeing his wife, and Aragorn felt a moment of pitying amusement at the thought that his prediction had come true; perhaps Lady Calithilien _had_ heard Zhubin’s cover story and taken it to heart.

 

Striding through a tall doorway, Maecheneb interrupted the serving of the third course by leading a blind-folded and heavily pregnant woman to stand by the seats left empty at the main table. Aragorn stared, but Erchirion dropped his fork and Amrothos actually turned over his wineglass, staining the table red. Maecheneb chuckled, holding up his hand for silence.

“You still haven’t given me this gift you claim will make me so very happy,” she replied, crossing her arms over her chest with some difficulty; the green dress stretched becomingly around her gravid figure.

“I always bring my beloved wife gifts from my travels,” Maecheneb informed calmly, moving behind the woman who must be Lady Calithilien, Aragorn realised, “and this time is no different, my love,” he chided playfully, “even if I did not find you jewels to match your beauty.” Undoing the knot behind her head slowly, he continued softly, “Instead, I have brought you… kinsmen.” Letting the scarf fall, Maecheneb revealed grey eyes that blinked open slowly, as if in disbelief.

“…Erchie?” she croaked, and Aragorn wondered if he was the only one who noticed the nearly fearful way she reached down to clutch Maecheneb’s hand. Erchirion’s chair banged against the floor when he jumped up, reaching out to wrap his old friend in a hug that had both of them weeping.

“You’re alive!” Erchirion cried, seemingly torn between hugging her tight enough to convince him she was truly in reach and staring at her face. Amrothos sat frozen, the contents of his wine goblet quietly dripping onto the inlaid mosaic flooring.

“Wait, _alive_?” Calithilien asked, staring confusedly up at Erchirion, who stood almost a full head taller than her.

“Your Erchie here nearly skewered me when we met,” Maecheneb commented glibly, sliding his seat back and accepting the full plate Glingaeril handed him with a quick smile before his attention turned back to his wife, one hand ready to support her if necessary.

“What?!” Grey eyes flashed – Erchirion hunched his shoulders.

“Lord Mithon claimed you’d been abducted and brutally murdered,” he admitted, scratching his neck; a flush travelling up from the neckline of his shirt. Calithilien gaped at him, her mouth opening and closing a few times. Her fingers squeezed tight around her husband’s, turning them nearly bloodless. Aragorn winced in sympathy, but Maecheneb just wrapped his arm around her shoulders, tucking her into his side.

“I’m sorry, zîrân,” he murmured, Adûnaic reassurances pressed into her black hair as Calithilien sagged into his hold. One hand caressed slowly across her belly, as though to calm the little inhabitant.

“We suspected, Mae,” Calithilien replied weakly, allowing him to press her into her chair. “Nothing has changed.” Erchirion looked lost, but Aragorn recognised the face of hope kept despite expectations suddenly smashed to pieces.

“I stand by my offer of burning down his stables,” Maecheneb replied, making her chuckle softly, and wiped a single tear from her cheek. “But you have not lost all you once knew, zîrân, these two still seem to care for you.”

“We grieved for you,” Amrothos agreed, as Erchirion sheepishly righted his chair, still staring at Calithilien’s face as though she might turn into a ghost at any moment.

“I thought… you never responded to my letter,” Calithilien said, leaning against Maecheneb, who remained standing beside her. “I expected Father to disapprove, but when I never heard from any of you, I…”

“It’s good to see you so well, Callie,” Erchirion smiled softly, “I missed you.”

“I missed you, too.” Giving him a watery smile, Calithilien seemed to notice the rest of the audience of the first time, an embarrassed flush washing into her cheeks. “My apologies for our tardiness, my lords,” she said quietly, picking up her eating knife and giving Maecheneb a light head shake; one of those small gestures that are intimately understood between husband and wife. Aragorn missed his own wife with a sudden fierce burst of longing, watching the look exchanged between them before Maecheneb sank into his own seat and began to eat. “I am Calithilien, the Moon-Dancer.” The title made as little sense to Faramir and the Princes as it did to Aragorn, but he nodded nonetheless.

“This is King Elessar, Callie,” Maecheneb introduced, “Vanquisher of the Black Serpent. The King of Gondor and Arnor.”

“It pleases me to make your acquaintance, my King,” Calithilien said, bowing her head respectfully.

“Likewise, my Lady,” Aragorn replied, accepting a refill from a passing servant; Calithilien smiled.

The evening passed in pleasantries and stories of the recently fought campaign – no one made mention of Calithilien’s relatives, but the brothers stayed up long after Aragorn went to bed, catching up with their old friend and promising to become ardent letter writers in the months and years to come.  

 

* * *

 

 

The man she had smiled at in the inn followed her out, Anahit knew, and did not feel like he had good intentions for tracking her footsteps. Quietly, she danced down a narrow alley, slipping into the deep shadows, fingering a small stiletto hidden in the sash tied around her waist.

“You should not follow lone women,” a man’s voice remarked mildly, making her pursuer whirl around, steel flashing in the light of the moon. Anahit cursed silently. The well-meaning fool was obviously unarmed, the finely tooled scabbard at his belt empty of a sword of any kind, something her pursuer had also noticed. Rounding on the second man, he raised his blade, poised for attack.

She moved swiftly, lithe dancer’s steps bringing her in close behind the man who had followed her, the sharp tip of her blade pressing delicately between two ribs; if she pressed, it would slide into his kidney with little effort.

“And you should not turn your back to an enemy,” she whispered, pricking his skin. The would-be assailant gasped, standing still as stone. The long blade – a sailor’s weapon, not a knight’s sword – clattered against the cobbles. Anahit kicked it away.

“Please…” the man begged, but Anahit did not care for snivelling pleading; if she let him go, who would he choose as his next victim. Her lips drew back in a snarl. She had had more than enough of this type of predatory coward in her former life.

“In the name of the King, you are under arrest for assaulting five women on the streets of Pelargir,” the second man said, and Anahit nearly dropped her weapon in surprise as several other men, dressed in the mail and armour of the City Guard suddenly surrounded them, swords levelled at her captive.

Drawing back her blade, feeling somewhat cheated, Anahit stood frozen on the street as the Guard hauled off the would-be assailant. Returning the blade to its hiding place, she watched as one of the soldiers handed a sword to her would-be rescuer. It fit in the empty scabbard; the dark cloak that bore a pin in the shape of the shield with the White Tree of Gondor that swirled around his shoulders next only added to her sudden fear. _What if they knew who she was?_

“Well done, my Lord,” the soldier said, but the captain shook his head, gesturing at Anahit.

“You should praise this young lady,” he said, taking a step towards Anahit, who stopped herself before she took more than half a step away. “You were… less helpless than expected, my Lady,” the Captain said, looking a mix between impressed and bashful that Anahit found quite endearing. “I am Captain Gwindon Sirithon of Pelargir. Might I ask your name?” The blush still coloured his cheeks; fascinatingly golden hair adorned a head that had been bronzed by the sun, but showed lines of pale skin where his tunic shifted.

Tilting her head, Anahit wondered why she felt suddenly unafraid, certain that the man before her would never lay a hand on her in anger. “Anahit,” she replied hesitantly, watching his grey-blue eyes crinkle at the corners when he smiled. “Anahit Zimramûn. From Gobel Mírlond.” She felt a little guilty for lying to Gwindon’s earnest face, but Anahit had little desire to retain links to the past she had so recently escaped. People of the North all seemed to have two names, and she _had_ been known as Zimra-Amrûn when she was younger. It would have to do.

“Lady Anahit…” he murmured, almost tasting her name. It sounded exotic with his odd accent; Anahit smiled cautiously. “Permit me to escort you to your lodgings, Lady Anahit,” he continued, bowing like she had seen men do for noble ladies in this land, and offered her his arm.

Anahit took it.


	7. Epilogue

## Epilogue

A day out from Gobel Mírlond, and Azarpari stood once more at the bow of the ship, her blue robes snapping in the breeze that played with her fiery hair; an image Aragorn would never forget. Silent tears ran down her face, her eyes closed as she seemed to listen to a voice none could hear, a smile playing around her lips.

Then she jumped overboard.

Abbas was the first to reach the railing, a loud cry passing his lips, but there was no sign of her beyond a bit of foam on the water, and a warm breeze that smelled like roses caressing their faces before it was gone as suddenly as the Wizard herself.

 

* * *

 

 

Sometimes, she missed the water gardens of Amrûn, closing her eyes and remembering. Sitting by the small fountain sweet Gwindon had installed as a surprise one year on their wedding date months after she mentioned missing the sound of running water, she could almost smell the scent of desert roses. Fond nostalgia coloured her thoughts, she knew, but still she found that she missed it, remembering the way the water mixed with the sound of her mother singing in a tongue she never learned.

Life in Lebennin was good, however, and the sounds of her son’s laughter mixed with the sound of the water here, and the exotic tongue singing was her own; Adûnaic still falling as easily as the Sindarin of court from her lips. She was rustier when it came to the desert tongue of Khand, but her dealings with the Haruze and the Umbarians kept her from forgetting the languages she had learned as a youngster.

“Nana, where are you?” a young voice called, breaking her reverie with childish giggling.

“Here, thôr zîrân,” Anahit called, splashing a bit of water at her son’s pudgy face, still round with the chubbiness of childhood but already showing evidence of her own father’s bones as well as Gwindon’s gentle smile. When he reached for her, she picked him up easily, nuzzling his small nose with her own. “Have you been good for Master Gimlad?”

“Yes,” he nodded solemnly, but the small smile gave him away. Anahit laughed. Her son had no gift for lying, just like his father.

“You’re going to have to get better at lying, thôr zîrân,” she murmured, “if I am to make a proper merchant of you.” Shaking her head slowly, she put the little boy on her hip, making her way back into the shadowy coolness of the house to apologise to his tutor.

“Perhaps he will be a knight, instead,” Gwindon chuckled from the doorway, catching her around the waist and pulling her in for a kiss. Anahit went happily.

“I suppose I’ll have to put my hopes for a successor in this little one then,” she sighed playfully, leaning into his touch and patting her still-flat stomach. Gwindon’s eyes widened with realisation, his hand falling down to cover hers as his free arm pulled her closer, turning the kiss into a low simmering hunger.

“I love you, Anahit,” he whispered into her mouth, and Anahit wondered if she would ever be tired of hearing that but thought it unlikely.

“As I love you, husband,” she replied softly, twining her fingers with his and returning the kiss ardently.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Maecheneb, whose wife did eventually forgive Zhubin’s deceptions, took over the business aspect of the family, becoming a highly respected merchant trader in Pelargir, where he kept a house, and in Umbar, where the majority of the fleet was anchored when they did not travel the known world in the hunt for exotic goods and treasures.

Calithilien, who suffered from terrible seasickness, split her time evenly between the house in Umbar and Zhubin’s mansion in Gobel Mírlond, raising their five children with all the love she could muster. She travelled over land every few years to visit Minas Tirith, though she did not reconcile with Lord Mithon until the old man was on his death bed. Maecheneb continued to spoil her as much as he could, keeping their large family in health and happiness.

Many years later, their youngest daughter Elwedil married Alphros, the son of Prince Elphir of Dol Amroth, finally joining the two families together.

 

* * *

 

 

He had been wary of taking up the post, once, but Lord Zhubin, Governor of Harondor, became an institution unto himself, working tirelessly to rebuild the wartorn lands of his domain in the name of King Elessar.

Peace reigned – for a time, at least – and Zhubin found himself well pleased with the bargain he had once struck, even though the loss of his young wife and infant son in childbirth dimmed his spirits for years thereafter. Continued trade with the Haradwaith brought much revenue from the trade of silks and spices, and Harondor saw an upsurge of prosperity under Zhubin’s rule, becoming a nation famed for its beautiful mosaics.

When Zhubin died, King Elessar asked Calithilien to take over the job, a decision that caused some uproar at court, but for which she proved an eminently sensible choice, widely accepted on both sides of the Sea.

 

* * *

 

 

Looking at his son was a source of never-ending fascination to Aragorn, even if the demands of Court meant he could not spend days marvelling at the perfection of Eldarion’s fingers and toes. Arwen laughed at that, but she was equally guilty of falling into reverie when she watched him sleep.

Around their small bubble of happiness, the Kingdoms continued to prosper, reigning in peace for years to come, and Aragorn slowly began to let go of the man who had been Strider, becoming Elessar in truth, even if remnants of the Ranger would always linger.

Before Eldarion was old enough – if anyone but his mother had been asked – Aragorn took him on short trips into the wilds, sharing a small escape from life as a King with his son as he taught him all the skills he himself had learned, both in Rivendell and in the North. During these times, Strider came to the fore, teaching Eldarion all his tricks, setting snares, fishing, finding useful herbs; all the things a Prince of the Dúnedain should know. Sometimes, Arwen went along, singing for the birds that came down from the trees to sit on her shoulders and sharing what she could of the ways of Elves.

When their daughters were born, things were no different; graceful Princesses they might be, but each of the Royal Children learned the ways of the Wilds, eventually passing their skills on to the next generations.

 

* * *

 

 

Life in Umbar was not much different to life in Dol Amroth, Erchirion had found, even if his diplomatic duties took up far more time than he’d like, preventing him from testing his mettle against the few corsairs willing to spar with him as often as he wished.

Of course, life in Umbar also came with frequent visits from little Nîlophel and her siblings, who looked to him as an Uncle; with Lothíriel and her children so far away, the children of Maecheneb and Calithilien had become his nieces and nephews, often found begging for stories of their mother’s former homeland.

Keeping his temper in check had been a hard-won battle, but Erchirion was determined to prove himself worthy of the trust his King and Queen had shown him and took his duties as ambassador very seriously. Spending his days with meetings and paperwork, wrangling unruly pirates and merchant sailors, might not be his favourite pastime, but Erchirion slowly realised that he had a knack for it.

Trying to fend off the many offers of marriage among the upper echelons of Corsair society was a different matter entirely, and Erchirion found himself hiding behind Calithilien’s skirts more than once in an attempt to fend off lusty daughters of proud Captains. He never did marry.

 

* * *

 

 

Amrothos, of course, had never believed marriage to be desirable in the first place, but found himself revising that opinion almost a decade after the Battle of Neledhín as he tried to woo a rather formidable lady from Lossarnach, whose father was firmly disinterested in his philandering reputation. The courtship lasted more than a year, and ended in an elopement when Lady Wilvarin decided that trying to satisfy his demands was a futile exercise, and she’d really rather deal with the consequences later. The pair used the road beneath the Dimholt and sought refuge with Queen Lothíriel of Rohan, welcoming their first daughter almost nine months to the day after the wedding.

Éomer considered the affair beyond hilarious, and spent long hours crafting elaborate denials of any knowledge of Lady Wilvarin’s whereabouts upon the enquiries of her irate sire. Prince Imrahil was less amused, but had to admit that the couple were suitably matched in both ardour and standing.

 

* * *

 

 

Aragorn invited Abbas to stay in Minas Tirith, discovering a capable debater behind the taciturn exterior, but the Dwarf did not enjoy the White City, and eventually ventured north, to Aglarond where Gimli had set up his colony of Longbeards. The newly named Lord of Aglarond was leery of this ‘cousin from the East’ at first, but the two eventually found each other; because of his own experiences, Abbas was uniquely capable of understanding Gimli’s friendship with Legolas – and Abbas eventually made himself a home in Aglarond. He became a favoured storyteller for Gimli’s nieces and nephews, sharing tales from everywhere he had travelled in the company of the Ancient One.

Abbas died shortly before Aragorn, trapped in a mine collapse, and the Annals of Aglarond claim it was this constellation of grief that made their Lord put down his crown and take his last friend into the West, never to be seen again.

 

**Author's Note:**

> These characters are quite new to me (prior to this I've written ~500 words of post-lotr) so comments are very welcome!


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